Irises
by softydog88
Summary: This tells the story of Marilyn and Jason from childhood to adulthood, with Castle and Beckett experiencing similar situations. Marilyn is murdered (this is not a spoiler) and as Beckett investigates, she finds an unexpected connection.
1. Chapter 1 - A Murder

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter One_

 _A Murder_

 _Note: This is my second go at posting this story. The first time, it received some harsh notices from people who didn't like the fact that the story revolves around my own characters, not Castle and Beckett. Rick and Kate are definitely in the story, though, and Kate eventually has a big role to play. If you don't like that fact, please do not waste your time on this story. It is 38 chapters long and I am posting five chapters a day until it's finished._

 _The Castle/Beckett items are not chronological - they pop up as needed, and there is no timeline there. The timeline for Marilyn and Jason is chronological, and the dates are meant to show this._

 _This story is very much a tragedy._

 _PART ONE_

" _Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin." —_ Mary Shelly

This is a story about forgiveness.

 _August 3, 2015_

She sat on her bed and surveyed the room. It was just the way she liked it—as dark as she could manage. The windows were covered with black sheets, the electronics were unplugged, the phone's battery was removed. The only illumination was the phosphorescent glow of her laptop, which cast an eerie shadow of plush animals against the wall to her right. She threw the animals one at a time on the floor and again cast a critical eye around her room. This time, all was well. She had gone through this routine a few hundred times since she was a little girl and there were never any surprises, but she needed the routine and, especially, the isolation, the dumbing of her senses, the feeling that the ugly reality of her life was fleeting or even illusory. It was her coping mechanism; a way to shut out the world that still tormented her daily. In darkness was anonymity, solitude―safety. It had worked, too, over and over, until _that_ _night_. But that night was long ago and though the pain of it had greatly diminished, it hadn't disappeared, and she still retreated to this, her childhood refuge, when things were bad. And now, they were worse than they had ever been. Even on that night. That awful night.

She sent one last email and tore open a bag of popcorn, scattering kernels without a care. She sipped her tea and put on her headphones. A few mouse clicks later, _Airplane!_ appeared on her laptop _._ She watched and laughed and ate and drank as she had done so many times before.

The movie ended and she turned on the light. She read for a few minutes, made another cup of tea and settled down to sleep.

Something stirred her, a noise just beyond the edge of her perception. She lay still and held her breath.

Silence.

The omnipresent sounds of New York, audible even in the dead of night, had settled down to nothingness. She shook her head and blamed recent events for her skittishness, closing her eyes after a minute's contemplation.

She was nearly asleep when she heard it again; once, twice—a swooshing sound, like shoes sliding slowly across a carpet, and now her heart was pounding and her eyes were wide open, pupils rapidly dilating as they tried, fruitlessly, to adjust to the dark.

Something went _click._

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of light, and for an infinitesimally brief moment, she knew it was all over.

And then it was.

* * *

 _August 4, 2015_

Beckett put down her phone and sighed. She rolled over and shook Castle.

"Skablabrgh," he said without opening his eyes.

"Castle, wake up!" She shook him again, harder this time.

"Really, Beckett?" he said with a sigh. "I know we're trying to get you pregnant, but honestly, I'm wiped out." He yawned and pulled the blanket over his shoulder.

"We've got a homicide. Time to go to work."

Castle's eyes snapped open and he leaped out of bed. "Great!" he said. Beckett glared at him and he stood there trying to sense her mood while the smile slowly left his face, taking his healthy glow along with it.

"Glad to see that investigating a murder is so much sweeter for you than making love to me," she said.

It took Castle thirty of the longest seconds of his life to think of something to say. "It's not _that_ , Beckett," he finally muttered. "It's just that...well, I really _am_ bushed, and the way I look at it, at least we'll be able to spend the day together, even if that day includes trips to crime scenes, the morgue and...Gates' office." He shuddered at the last two words and Beckett laughed.

"That might change entirely if I make Captain, you know."

He plopped back down on the bed. "If that happens―and I hope it does―then I'm going back to writing full time, because there's no way I want to do any of that grisly murder stuff without you."

She laughed and kissed him. "Yes," she said, patting his cheek playfully, "and while that's undeniably sweet, someone has to be there to save you from yourself."

Beckett pulled up in front of a typical brownstone apartment on Tenth Street. Espo and Ryan greeted her and Castle immediately.

"What have we got, boys?" Beckett asked.

"Marilyn Singletary, 29," Ryan said. "Single slug to the head. Looks like a .38. Perp got in though the open window in the living room."

"OK," Beckett said, putting on a pair of gloves, "let's get started."

Before they entered, she took another look at the apartment.

"We've been here before _,_ haven't we?" she said.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Oreo Tree

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Two_

 _The Oreo Tree_

" _Maybe it's not about the length of time you've known someone; maybe it's about instant recognition on an unconscious level. Our souls know each other." —_ S.E. Hall

 _October 12, 1995_

He hurried out of the cafeteria, his _Iron Man_ lunch box in his right hand, his carton of milk in his left. He pushed his way past a group of children―this was the lunch period for grades one though four―and he raced across the blacktop past the kindergarten to the trees just this side of the perimeter fence. She was there, of course, alone as always and he stopped when he saw her. She was sitting against a tall, stately oak. The ground around her was littered with a beautiful kaleidoscope of red and yellow leaves, a perfect setting in the dark, brooding autumn afternoon. She sat with her legs drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around her knees. Her wavy red hair flowed over her shoulders and down her sides where it nearly touched the ground. She sat motionless, and something about it bothered him, as it had every day since he saw her on the first day of school. She seemed infinitely sad.

He approached her slowly, shuffling his feet, his gaze cast downward. He listened for an indication that she knew he was there, but she was so quiet that he finally looked up and he was surprised to find her only a few feet away. He wanted to make a meaningful gesture to show how serious he was, so he took off his Yankees cap and held it over his heart the way some of the fans did at the ball park during the national anthem. She didn't notice, and he jammed the cap in his back pocket. Then she choked back a sob and his 9-year-old heart broke.

"What's wrong?" he asked as softly as he could muster.

She looked up in surprise, shook her head, tried to dismiss him with a wave of her hand. Instead of leaving, he sat down facing her, took a napkin out of his lunch box and offered it to her with a smile. She grabbed it, dabbed at her eyes a few times and handed it back to him with a frown. _What pretty green eyes_ , he thought, though he hadn't seem them. It just seemed like the proper, romantic thing to think. _And redheads always have pretty green eyes._

"Nothing's wrong," she said. "I just want to be left alone."

"You're always alone. I see you here every day, eating lunch by yourself."

"So what? Why do you care?"

"Don't you want some company? I'm alone, too. We can be alone together, and presto! No more being alone for either of us." He smiled, but she wasn't looking, and he moved directly in front of her.

"You keep saying 'alone' and you're just making it worse," she sighed. "And I don't need things to be any worse than they are, thank you very much."

A leaf floated through the air and landed on her head so softly that she didn't notice it. He grabbed it and offered it to her; she took it and dropped it immediately.

"So let me make it better," he said. "I have four Oreos in my lunch. You can have two." He held out a plastic bag and shook it while raising his eyebrows. She squinted at him suspiciously but grabbed the bag anyway.

"I love Oreos," she said with a crooked smile. Hope shot through him; somewhere beneath that sadness there was joy, and if it took a thousand Oreos, he was going to bring it out.

"They're the best," he grinned in return. "Hang on a second, I bought milk."

He plopped the carton between them and worked it open from both ends, forming a square so they could dunk. As they both reached for the milk their knuckles touched for the briefest of moments.

"Oops," she said, her face rapidly reddening. "You go first."

"OK." He dunked, and held his Oreo in front of him. She giggled as a few drops of milk landed on his Levi's.

"Cheers," she said, and they knocked their soggy cookies together. She took small bites, licking her lips between them, and he immediately decided that it was endearing. His crush, nurtured through many a day of gazing at her from afar, was already growing.

* * *

"It's Marilyn," she said as they walked together after school. "Marilyn Singletary. Funny how we didn't think to introduce ourselves during lunch."

"Hey, there were cookies to be eaten," he replied. "Priorities."

"Really? What's your excuse now?"

It took him a moment to figure out what she meant. "Oh!" he said. "It's Jason Tompkins."

They continued their walk, trading facts about their favorite TV shows and movies. Then Jason took off his sweater and she noticed the pinstriped t-shirt he was wearing.

"So you're a Yankees fan?" she asked.

"Big time," he said, trying to sound manly despite the fact that he wasn't a fan at all. "My dad takes me to games on the weekends when he's not working, which is not very often." That much, at least, was true.

"That sounds like fun." She read the name on the back of his shirt. "Who's Jeter?"

"He's the Yankees new shortstop, Derek Jeter. He's going to be great!" He thought for a second. "Are you a fan too?"

"No, but my dad is. I used to watch with him once in a while, but he can get pretty mad if they lose." She didn't mention how her father shouted at the TV when things went badly or the slips of paper he tore up and threw in the air when he lost another bet. And she was especially careful to omit the drinking.

Jason stopped. "Here's where I get on the train," he said.

"Just how far from school do you live, Jason?"

He laughed. "I'm not going straight home. It's Monday, so I have my sax lesson."

"Your what?"

"My saxophone lesson." He held up his instrument case and smiled, then played a little air sax for a few seconds, his fingers flying along faster than they would have on an actual saxophone. He added to the illusion by pursing his lips and tapping his foot to an imaginary beat.

Marilyn blushed. "Sorry, I thought you said something else."

He suppressed the urge to laugh. "My idol is John Coltrane. Do you like jazz, Marilyn?"

"I don't know. I've never really listened to jazz. My mom likes soft rock, like America, Air Supply and Bread, which I hate, so I definitely don't take after her." She rolled her eyes.

"I know what you mean. If you're going to call yourselves a rock and roll band, get a freakin' amp for Pete's sake!"

Marilyn laughed. "My musical tastes run more to Michael Jackson, REM, Talking Heads and Depeche Mode."

"Wow. That's all over the map. But I like that."

"I'm versatile," she chuckled.

He glanced at his watch and winced. "Tell you what," he said as he stared into her pretty green eyes, "tomorrow I'll bring six Oreos. Three for each of us. And I'll meet you under that same tree. It'll be our place. The Oreo Tree."

Before she could answer, he waved at her and ran down the steps into the subway station. From the bottom step he turned around and looked up, ecstatic that she was still there, looking down at him, glowing like Tipi Hedren in _Vertigo_.

"By the way," he said, "I like that band of freckles across your face. It reminds me of the Milky Way on a summer's night in the country."

He was gone. She walked to the bus stop for the lonely ride home, but this time it didn't feel quite so lonely.

* * *

"Can you miss someone you just met?" Marilyn asked her mother, Sandra, that evening.

Sandra grinned. "I guess so. I mean, I don't see why not. What's his name?"

"I didn't say it was a him," Marilyn replied gruffly.

"Oh," Sandra said. "Well..."

"His name is Jason. I just met him today, but he's really my only friend right now."

Sandra covered Marilyn's hands with her own. "Yes, you can miss your friend. Even after a single day. So, how did you meet?"

Marilyn told Sandra the story, being careful to omit the fact that Jason had approached her from a shared sense of loneliness. Then she heard a sound at the front door and her father, drunk and grunting as he struggled to get the key in the lock. She hurried to her bedroom. She laid in her bed and covered her ears with her pillow to drown out the same argument her parents had been having for a year—the argument that had led her to a tree at the edge of the schoolyard where she could be alone to cry. She desperately wanted to be in a place where she didn't have to worry about her parents threatening each other. A place where she didn't have to watch her father destroy himself. A place where she had friends.

 _But I have a friend now, don't I?_ she thought. Jason had promised to see her tomorrow and to bring more cookies to that tree. _Their tree_ , he had said. He even named it. A friendship based on cookies? She was sure her parents had even less in their lives these days. Besides, she and Jason had talked about many things during lunch, from books to movies to music and she felt better when it was time to go back to class—like she was no longer so utterly alone even in a small school. _Maybe it's OK to go through life with just one friend_ , she thought. _Just me and Jason against the world._

She decided that if that was the case, she'd isolate herself in her room. No outside distractions; just a pile of videotapes and some CDs. She started by pushing a shirt against the door to keep out the light. She took some black sheets out of her closet and tacked them across her windows, watching with satisfaction as the streetlights disappeared. Then she turned on her TV and VCR. Her isolation as complete as she could make it, she put in a _Bugs Bunny_ tape and leaned back to enjoy herself.

Her headphones had just covered her ears when she heard the front door slam as her father stormed out of the mom was crying and the pain in her sobs made Marilyn start crying, too. She buried her face in her pillow so she wouldn't be heard.

 _No,_ _it'll be me and Jason and mom. She needs me._ _And I need them._


	3. Chapter 3 - An Unwelcome Encounter

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Three_

 _An Unwelcome Encounter_

 _Shame and eternal shame, nothing but shame! —_ William Shakespeare, _King Henry V_

 _December 2, 1995_

Marilyn and Jason had been friends for a couple of months, and she had eaten more Oreos in that time than she had in her entire life up to then, so, now that they had shared something so powerful (and delicious), she was perfectly comfortable in his presence. But this was the first time Marilyn had been to Jason's apartment and she had no idea what to expect. He hadn't told her where he lived, and now that she was here, in front of this beautiful art deco building on the upper West side complete with doormen in elegant red suits, hailing taxis, holding umbrellas over the tenants and holding open their limousine doors, she felt intimidated. Her father was forever complaining about places like this, swarming with fat cats who spent their time in exclusive clubs talking about their stock portfolios between games of squash or reading _Barron's_ at the Princeton Club in huge leather chairsin front of a twenty-foot high fireplace while a butler named Jeeves kept the Scotch flowing. She knew it was hyperbole, or maybe jealousy, considering it came from a man who had worked on Wall Street for many years before losing his job, but there was certainly a grain of truth to it. Jason, however, had always seemed perfectly friendly and down-to-earth. She didn't expect that just because they were here he'd become just another rich kid with parents who were continually bailing him out of one scrape or another or whisking him away to boarding school in Switzerland to avoid an ugly scandal. _Talk about cliché,_ she thought.

She steeled her resolve and followed Jason inside. The lobby was the most ornate place she had ever seen—all marble floors, miniature palm trees and crystal chandeliers. The elevator ride was quick and smooth and they exited on the seventh floor and walked down a long, brightly lit corridor adorned with flowers in Chinese vases every twenty feet. Jason opened the door with his key.

 _It didn't even squeak_ , Marilyn thought.

They made their way through the apartment quickly, but it was ample time for her to be impressed by the high ceilings, hardwood floors, art everywhere and the spectacular view of Central Park. And it had a library; a dark room with oak walls, leather chairs, bottles of booze in crystal decanters and bookshelves from floor to ceiling that had no empty spots. It also had strange paintings. Marilyn thought this library must be like one of those clubs from her father's imagination. She stopped in the middle of the room, turned around and looked at a painting mounted over the couch.

"Here," Jason said, and Marilyn heard a click. A light turned on over the painting and she was able to see it in greater detail.

"It's a Kandinsky," he explained. "Do you like it?"

Her glasses had slid halfway down her nose, a common occurrence when she was concentrating. She pushed them back and said "not really. I'm sorry, but it just looks like a bunch of colors all mixed up."

"Exactly. Don't get me wrong, I like art. Love it, in fact, but I prefer paintings _about_ something. I told that to my mom, and she stopped taking me to the MOMA and started taking me to the Met."

"The MOMA?"

"The Museum of Modern Art. It's filled with these kind of paintings. Abstract, which is just a fancy way of saying that it could mean anything. Mom's the art lover, and everything you see around here is her doing. Dad's a sports guy. Once he tried to buy a football painting by an artist named Leroy Neiman and mom almost had a fit. I sometimes wonder why they even like each other, let alone got married and had me."

"What do they do?" Marilyn asked, wondering how they managed to afford a place like this.

"Dad's the director of North American marketing for Nabisco. They make Oreos, among other things, which explains why I have them all the time. Mom's an art professor at Hunter College."

Marilyn suppressed the urge to whistle as though she were impressed; the house was far too elegant for that, even as a joke, though she imagined her dad would be amused. They continued on their way, down a hallway with wallpaper that looked like scenes from ancient Rome.

 _Tacky_ , Marilyn thought, and she congratulated herself on her good taste. Jason stopped and said "this is my room."

Marilyn hesitated at the door, her mother's voice ringing in her head with warnings about going into boy's rooms. Jason didn't notice; he just went straight to his computer and turned it on. Marilyn, her fears tempered somewhat, stepped inside and stood next to the desk. The room was nothing like she imagined. She thought that boy's rooms had clothes strewn everywhere, racing car beds with Yankees bedspreads and a hamster in an aquarium (without the water). But Jason's room was neat. Posters of John Coltrane, Miles Davis and Dizzy Gillespie covered the walls, the dresser drawers were closed, the bed was made and the floor was free of anything that belonged in a hamper or a garbage can.

 _They must have a maid_ , she thought. _Must be nice_.

"It's called AOL," Jason explained as the computer came to life, "and you use it to get on the Internet. From there, you can find all sorts of useful information, such as what time _Toy Story_ is playing."

"Can't you just get that out of the paper?"

"The only one we subscribe to is _The Wall Street Journal_ , big surprise, which, even if my dad didn't take it to work with him every day, doesn't have movie listings. And with AOL, we don't have to buy a newspaper."

He made a few mouse clicks and Marilyn watched, disinterested, until Jason's tongue slid out of the side of his mouth as he navigated through a baffling array of hyperlinks. She turned her head, covered her mouth with her hand and snickered.

"OK, it starts at 3:15 at the AMC in Times Square," he declared triumphantly. He wiped his brow and checked his watch. "We'd better get going. There's going to be a long line for sure."

He offered Marilyn his hand. If he had asked her for a kidney, he would not have been met with a more perplexed reaction. Her mind raced through probable outcomes like a gambler two minutes before post time at Santa Anita. When Jason suggested they go to a movie yesterday she was happy to agree, but she had second thoughts the moment he said "then it's a date!" Those words, benign as they were when he said them, still held uncomfortable connotations for her. And even though they ate lunch together every day and he walked her to the bus stop after school, she was still nervous around him sometimes. She wondered if she should ask him straight out what he expected. Right or wrong, it was sure to be embarrassing, so she stood there, motionless and mute until he withdrew his hand. He kept silent and she internalized a sigh of relief and followed him out the door.

* * *

 _May 11, 2012_

"Thanks for seeing _21 Jump Street_ with me, Castle," Beckett said as they left their seats. "I was sure you were going to hold out for _The Avengers_ , but I wanted to see a comedy. That it was a comedy with cops was just a bonus."

"I wanted our first movie together to be something we _both_ wanted to see," Castle replied, not mentioning that he had already seen _The Avengers_ three times by himself in the week it had been out.

"I've always loved going to the movies. My parents used to take me all the time. The first one I remember seeing was _Back to the Future._ I was seven, and I didn't understand much of it, but I sure liked it."

"Mine was _King Kong._ The 1976 version, with Jeff Bridges and Jessica Lange. I was five, and the minute I saw that giant ape, I was hooked." He coughed. "I also saw Jessica Lange topless. Mother tried to cover my eyes, but it was too late. The damage was done; I was traumatized for life."

"Traumatized? Really?"

Castle laughed. "No, not really. Anyway, I think that's where I got my love of sci-fi, which, naturally, led to comic books."

"Which led," Beckett replied, "to paranoid delusions, crazy conspiracy theories, implausible conjectures, emotional immaturity...and a totally endearing personality."

She pushed him against the theater wall and kissed him. It was a sloppy kiss, wet, wild and passionate, and Beckett placed her palms against the wall on either side of him and leaned in.

 _Complain all you want_ , Castle thought as people squeezed by them swearing like Marines. _My date has a gun, and she's not afraid to use it._

So they stood on a floor caked with soda, candy, popcorn and butter and kissed. And they were still kissing when the crowd for the next showing started filing in.

* * *

"That was great!" Marilyn exclaimed after the movie. "It was so funny."

"It sure was," Jason said. "I'm glad I didn't have to see it alone. I hate that."

"Me, too."

They walked down Broadway slowly. "It's a little cold," Marilyn said as she zipped up her jacket.

"Yeah," Jason agreed, "and that makes it perfect weather for ice cream! What do you say?"

Marilyn frowned. "I'd love to, but I only have enough money for the subway."

"It's my treat. There's a place on 38th street that sells the best peppermint fudge I've ever had." She nodded and he smiled and held out his hand and this time Marilyn took it. It felt strange; cold and clammy like a piece of bologna straight out of the fridge, yet whatever ambivalence she had was suddenly swept away because despite that, it felt so _good._

The place Jason had in mind was an old-fashioned soda shop named Swedeberg's. It had been around since 1928, just before the Great Depression, and it retained that decade's look and feel. Checkerboard floors, a wall of candies in glass jars and old, green blenders lined up behind the counter—it fit right in with Grand Central Station and the Empire State Building. The menu, written in chalk on a blackboard behind the staff, was filled with seasonal delectables like pumpkin pie and egg nog ice creams and spiced apple cider. The cider seemed especially popular; most of the people sitting at the booths had one in front of them, wisps of steam rising from them like little factories. Marilyn and Jason stepped up to the register and saw a black-and-white photo of a man with a toothy smile enjoying a milkshake. It said _FDR, February 17, 1933_ , and they wondered who he was. They both ordered a scoop of peppermint fudge; Jason chose a sugar cone and Marilyn took hers in a cup.

"Wow," Marilyn said after her first bite, "this is delicious."

"Didn't I tell you? One of these days, when we have more time, we'll come back here and share an egg cream and a banana split. It'll blow your mind."

They took their cones outside and resumed their trek. It was Saturday, but the traffic was still moving slowly. Loud, obnoxious horns were honking every few seconds, testing everyone's patience. Suddenly Marilyn froze. Her cheeks, red from the cold, quickly turned white and she dropped her ice cream. Her gaze was fixed on a man in tattered clothing who was making his way up the street slowly. He was stopping random people and pestering them for money. He was clearly drunk and as people pushed him away, he seemed about to topple over.

"What's wrong?" Jason asked. "Who is that guy?"

Marilyn didn't answer. She pushed Jason against the building to their left. With her back to the street she leaned in quickly and kissed him, cradling his head in her hands to shield her face. She was breathing rapidly and Jason didn't know how to react. He closed his eyes and kissed her back, but this was nothing like he expected. A first kiss should be sloppy yet magical; timid yet passionate. But the only feeling behind this kiss seemed to be fear as Marilyn's lips hardened and began to quiver against Jason's. She heard a raspy, slurred, familiar voice pan from her right to behind her, and finally, to her left. As the voice faded to nothingness she started to sob through the kiss and Jason pushed her away from him.

"Who's that man you were trying to hide from?" he demanded. He brushed the tears from her reddened cheeks and asked again, softer this time.

"My father," she said, and the tears began anew.


	4. Chapter 4 - Call 911

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Four_

" _Call 911"_

 _December 29, 1995_

 _She was powerful, not because she wasn't scared, but because she went on so strongly, despite the fear_ —Atticus

Marilyn was suffering through another sleepless night. She felt sick to her stomach―not from an illness, but because she dreaded her father coming home. He had been on an exceptionally long binge this time; for weeks she had watched her mother taking empty vodka bottles to the recycling bin before the sun rose, when she thought Marilyn was still asleep. The booze had pushed her father into a state of continual anger and the arguments now happened so often it was as though one simply flowed into the next. The fact that they were all about money only made things worse. Marilyn hadn't told her mother about that encounter on the street, but after a month of essentially hiding in her room while her father slept off the booze, she decided she had to. She made her way into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Sandra was in the living room watching TV. Marilyn made a cup of hot cocoa and took a seat at the table where Sandra joined her a minute later.

"Having trouble sleeping?" Sandra asked.

Marilyn ignored the question. "Why is he always so angry, mom?"

Sandra had spent hours thinking about how to tell Marilyn the truth, and the one thing she had concluded was to carefully admit nothing more than necessary to put Marilyn's mind at ease.

"I think it's mostly frustration. Your father made a good living on Wall Street, but he was stuck in middle management. We had everything we needed and when you were born, we dreamed about sending you to Dalton and Columbia. Then he got his chance, and became an executive, and suddenly everything was in reach. Now he can't find a job and I had to go to work. We're making do as best we can, but his pride is hurt. And it's not because I have to work, either. It's just that it must be killing him to face rejection day after day. He's got all that experience, and the few jobs openings there are go to young kids right out of college."

"Why was he fired?"

"Honestly, I don't know. He told me that some young hotshot with connections was handed his job. I don't know if that's the whole story, though."

"But he hasn't been looking for a job, has he?"

"What makes you say that? Where do you think he goes every day, all day long?"

"I'm not stupid, mom. I hear the two of you argue. I can't understand a word he says, he's so drunk. And even if I didn't figure it out from that, I hear you yelling at him, telling him to be responsible and take care of his family."

There was a long pause. Sandra's lips were parched; she licked them and sighed.

"Mom?" Marilyn pleaded. "Quit stalling."

"Yes," Sandra finally said, "I yell at him, because it's my job to protect you. I'm sorry that you have to hear it, but it's his job to take care of you, too. Your father needs to be reminded of that."

"What about his job to love me?"

Sandra sighed. "That's not really a job, sweetie. It comes with the territory, and it's the most natural thing in the world. We gave you life; we can't help but love you. So please, don't worry. I'm making enough at my job to pay the rent and feed us. And I might get to be a sales associate soon, and at Bloomingdale's, that means commission money. Quite a lot, if I manage to move some merchandise." She tried to conceal her doubt with a weak smile, but Marilyn wasn't convinced.

"Where does he get the money to drink, mom? Do you give it to him?"

Another pause. Marilyn's impatience was evident; she was tapping her foot and she arched her left eyebrow.

"I do," Sandra admitted. "I'd rather that he take money from me than steal it out of desperation."

"Steal it?" Marilyn cried, and she burst out crying. She put her arm on the table and buried her face in the crook of her elbow. "I saw him on the street," she said. "He was drunk and he was...begging."

"What?" Sandra gasped. "When was that?"

"A few weeks ago. I was with Jason after the movie and I was scared and so embarrassed."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sandra shouted, but Marilyn shook her head without looking up. She cried from embarrassment, from frustration and from rage.

Then they heard the sound of a garbage can being knocked over and Marilyn hurried to her room and shut the door.

* * *

"How did it happen, Castle?" Beckett asked after they had gone to bed. "I'm dying to know. Unless it's too personal, of course."

"Not at all," Castle replied. "It was during one of Meredith's weird periods where she claimed to have rediscovered her maternal instincts. Even though Alexis had been living with me for four years, Meredith still sued to get custody. I wasn't surprised, but I was really disappointed. Meredith was constantly trying to undermine my relationship with Alexis, and this time she had gone too far."

"And how did Alexis react to that?"

"She took a very dispassionate approach, mature, focused, _'just the facts, mom.'_ I was so proud. Maybe a little _too_ proud. Meredith took note and I'm certain that was behind her sudden request for more alimony. And Alexis handled our court date exceptionally."

"She did? How?"

"First of all, she wasn't intimidated or nervous at all. She told the judge that she understood that Meredith wanted Alexis to live with her and what that meant. And then she said 'and I want to stay with Daddy because he does a better job of loving me than Mommy does. He _tells_ me he loves me, all the time. Mommy never says that. And he makes my breakfast and takes me to school and tucks me in at night.' I was on top of the world."

"That must have unnerved Meredith."

"I expected her to be crushed, but truth be told, she seemed more relieved than anything else. The judge picked up on it too, I think; he didn't waste any time dismissing her suit. Alexis actually clapped, right there in court."

"Have you ever wondered what would have happened if Meredith had won custody?"

"I try not to. I'm just happy that it worked out, you know? Later, when we were getting ready to go our separate ways again, Alexis said to Meredith 'no hard feelings, Mommy. I just think that Daddy and I are a better fit.' Then she shook Meredith's hand and we left."

"That's incredible," Beckett said. "I've always known Alexis was mature, but I didn't realize that she was _that_ mature. Not at 7 years old, anyway."

"She was certainly more mature than Meredith. But I _was_ surprised when as we were walking away, she turned around, ran back to Meredith, hugged her and said "I still love you, mommy. I always will." And _that_ was the first time I saw Meredith act like a mother since Alexis was a baby. She was a terrible wife and still is a terrible mother, but I've never regretted marrying her." He shook his head and added "well, let's just say that without her I wouldn't have Alexis, so whatever penance I had to endure while we were married was worth it."

"OK, but surely there have been some moments when you and Alexis weren't getting along. No relationship is _that_ perfect."

"I can really only think of one. Alexis was pretty mad at me for not taking her with me on a book signing tour. She was eleven, and she thought that I could just yank her out of school for three weeks and hit the road with her in tow. She refused to see me off, and she didn't talk to me the first week, even though I called her every day, but I wore her down. And I brought her back a copy of _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ with a personal note to her by J.K. Rowling, so by then, all was forgiven."

Beckett rolled over and kissed him goodnight.

* * *

Marilyn pressed her ear against the door. She heard her father barrel into the house and his voice, loud and threatening despite being too slurred to be understood, seemed to be coming from all around her. A chair scraped loudly against the floor and she grew afraid that something dreadful was about to happen. She cracked open the door and peered into the kitchen. Sandra's back was against the wall. She held out the chair like a lion tamer, backing away carefully and said "Eric, this has to stop!"

He took a few menacing steps forward, his mouth hanging open but no words emerging from it. Sandra bolted for the table, trying desperately to keep it between herself and Eric. He pulled a bottle of booze out of his jacket pocket, took a swig, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and swigged again. Sandra kept moving around the table as Eric resumed the pursuit. She grabbed the cup of hot chocolate that Marilyn had made and flipped her wrist, hitting Eric in the face. He didn't react; he just stood there, his pupils dark like small black marbles, the whites of his eyes covered with lightning bolts of red. Finally, he put his hands under the lip of the tabletop and yanked, flinging the table onto its side. Sandra tried to run past him, but he reached out and grabbed her. He held her by the shoulders and shook her like a doll, causing her glasses to fly off her face.

"Whadda you know what it's like out there?" he said, his language skills leaving with his sobriety. "You gotta job." He exhaled alcohol breath in her face and she winced in disgust. She wanted to hit him, scratch him, poke out his eyes, but her arms were pinned to her side.

"Marilyn is afraid of you," she managed to say. "She knows that you're nothing but a filthy drunk."

He squinted in confusion. "Afraid o' me? No she ain't. I can prove it."

He shoved Sandra away as hard as he could and she bounced off the wall, leaving behind a few spots of blood. He staggered toward the hallway. Sandra ignored the pain and beat him there. She stood with her arms out defiantly, blood dripping from her nose, daring him to try to get past her.

For a moment, he was too stunned to act. He wiped his face with his palm and in the same motion let go with a furious backhand, catching Sandra in the jaw. She dropped to the ground and Eric stood over her and raised his leg to kick her.

Marilyn let out a wail. Eric heard her and looked up. Sandra scooted a few feet, opened a nearby cabinet and grabbed a roll of quarters. Grasping it tightly, she punched as hard as she could, straight up. Eric fell and cupped his hands between his legs in pain. He sat up and caught Sandra's ankle as she tried to stand, pulling her down with so much force that she bounced off the floor. He grabbed her wrist and forced her hand open. He took the roll of quarters, then opened the cabinet so hard that the door came off. He tossed it aside and grabbed a goldfish bowl filled with loose coins and a few rolls of pennies. Then he stood up, glared at Sandra and spat at her before he made his way out of the apartment.

Marilyn ran to her mother. "Are you all right?" she cried. Sandra rubbed her hand across her jaw a few times.

"Call 911. When the police get here, I'm taking us to a hotel. I have to keep you safe."

Then she hugged Marilyn and kept hugging her until they both fell asleep, and the phone call was never made.


	5. Chapter 5 - All That Jazz

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Five_

 _All That Jazz_

" _Life is a lot like jazz...it's best when you improvise." —_ George Gershwin

 _January 27, 1996_

"Keep the door open," Jason's mom whispered as he and Marilyn made their way to his bedroom.

"What does she think we're going to do?" Marilyn asked when they were safely out of earshot.

"You don't want to know," Jason laughed. He flipped through some CDs on his desk, found the one he wanted and popped it into his boom box.

"This is called _Cotton Club Stomp_ ," he said. The music started and he snapped his fingers.

"I really like it," Marilyn said after a few moments of contemplation. She sat on the edge of Jason's bed and bobbed her head and tapped her feet.

"It's by Dizzy Gillespie. We're playing it on Friday night."

He handed her the CD case and she looked at it intently. Jazz was utterly outside her experience, but Jason liked it and she was determined to give it a chance and even feign interest if necessary. But she quickly realized she didn't have to pretend; she genuinely liked it. Jason watched her, wondering what she was thinking. Her lips began to widen and form into a smile, though she didn't notice it. Jason did, however.

"And you can play this?" she said. "That's pretty amazing."

He laughed. "We're not this good of course, but we've been practicing it for a while now. Our set won't be long―only five songs―but everyone will get a chance to solo, including me when we play this. And...I'm going to sing."

"Really? I didn't know you could sing!" Marilyn clapped her hands a few times, the kind where only her palms touched and didn't make too much noise.

"I'm not great or anything, but I've only been doing it for a few months. It's the last song, so that's good. It'll be what stays in people's minds after the concert."

"What song is it?"

"It's called _Embraceable You_ , by George and Ira Gershwin. It's an old standard―they all are, actually―but it's a lot of fun. And romantic, too."

Marilyn felt a small pressure against her right leg. She glanced down and saw a cat rubbing its face on her pants.

"Her name's Hypatia," Jason said. "She's really friendly. Loves everybody."

Hypatia took that as a cue to crouch slightly, then jump straight up and somehow glide sideways in mid-air to land on the bed next to Marilyn with the perfect grace cats require of themselves when they know people are watching. Marilyn petted her and felt Hypatia purring against her hand, though the music was too loud to hear it.

"Hey," Jason said, "you're not allergic to cats or anything, right?"

"I don't think so. I've never been around one for more than a few minutes." Hypatia climbed into Marilyn's lap and plopped down.

"She's sweet, Jason. I like her."

He smiled. The music continued, and Marilyn was beginning to like it more and more. "How do you keep all this music straight in your head?" she asked.

"I don't know. It just happens, I guess. You play a piece often enough and it all just flows in your mind. There are plenty of cues to pick up on once you know how to listen for them. But it doesn't matter. I already know all the music by heart, even though Mr. Holland, our teacher, says we all have to use the sheet music because he doesn't want anybody to mess up."

"You won't mess up. I know you won't."

"Yeah, and I know I won't either, but there are sixteen people in the orchestra, and if _anyone_ messes up, the whole thing falls apart. Like last week, we were rehearsing and Eddie Delaford got careless. He was rocking back and forth, really getting into it, eyes closed and then he actually smacked his trombone slide against his music stand so hard that it made Hillary Foster drop her clarinet. Mr. Holland was so mad his whole face turned red. That made Eddie start to cry, which made everyone else start laughing and we had to stop. After that, every time we tried to play, someone started to laugh and it just kept going and going until no one was actually playing anymore. I swear, if that happens on Friday, Mr. Holland is going to have a heart attack."

"He sounds like a real hothead."

"He is. We all hate him, but he's the best jazz teacher for kids our age in the city, and I was lucky to get into his program. His students go on to all the best music schools, too. Even Julliard. That's where I want to go."

A new song started. " _Things To Come_ ," Jason said.

Marilyn carefully placed Hypatia on the bed and stood up. She turned up the music and started to twist her hips and torso and she held her arms straight out to her sides while letting her hands gyrate wildly. Then she began to move her feet and she slid across the room like a ballerina. She closed her eyes and dropped her head and let her hair fall forward so far it almost hit the ground and it swished back and forth as she danced. Then Jason joined in, trying to mimic what Marilyn was doing and soon they were on opposite sides of the room, swaying and swinging with the Benny Goodman Big Band, totally oblivious and yet somehow keenly aware of each other.

Jason's mom appeared at the door with a plate of Oreos, but when she saw them dancing she put the cookies on Jason's dresser and left with a smile and a sigh.

* * *

"The Preservation Hall Jazz Band?" Castle asked.

"Yes," Beckett replied, holding up a pair of tickets. "They're at the Blue Note in the village tonight. They play good old-fashioned New Orleans Dixieland jazz. You'll love it."

"I thought you liked John Coltrane and all that avant-garde stuff. Or, 'avant-garde a clue' as the Beatles used to say."

"Oh, I'm versatile, Rick. After last night, that should be perfectly clear to you." She spoke with something of a purr and Castle's face reddened.

"Shh," he said, "mother's nearby."

"Not for long," said Martha from the kitchen. "I'm going out with Henry tonight. This is our third date, and you know what that means." Castle groaned as Martha picked up her purse and coat and headed for the door. "Planning to be rather versatile myself," she muttered as she left.

Beckett checked her watch. "We have time for a little fun ourselves," she said.

* * *

When Marilyn laid in bed that night, she stared at the ceiling, amazed at how happy she was. She and her mother had been living in a new apartment for two months now. At first, she was certain that life as she knew it was over. Her mother had wanted them to move to a small town in New Jersey called Nutley, near her sister Katherine and Katherine's husband Boyd. It was far enough from New York and easy enough to commute to work to satisfy her. But she found a new place near the hotel she worked in. It was an expensive but well-maintained building that her manager, a woman who was had worked her way up from sales and was serving as a mentor to Katherine, was able to secure for her. It meant a longer bus ride to school, but Marilyn was all right with it as long as she was able to see Jason every day. The thought of him put her in a jazzy mood so she put on a CD and listened to the music of Duke Ellington, and fell asleep to the new soundtrack of her life.

That Friday she sat in the front row of the auditorium at school. This was her first concert and she was so excited she could barely keep still. Even though it had only been six days since Jason told her about the gig, she had dutifully crossed off the days on her calendar in big red X's. The auditorium was small, but packed and her seat afforded her a good view of Jason's head poking up above his music stand. The lights dimmed and the band stood up as the director walked onstage. Marilyn applauded as he bowed to the audience and stood behind a microphone. He took a piece of paper from his pocket.

"We're the _Gramercy Music Academy Jazz Band Two_ , also known as _juniors_ ," he said, "and we're going to start with a piece made famous by The Tommy Dorsey Orchestra called _Opus One._ " He faced the band and Marilyn could hear him humming and gesticulating with his hands until the entire ensemble started playing rapid-fire staccato bursts and just like that the concert was in full swing.

Marilyn was in heaven. She recognized the piece; it was on one of the CD's Jason had lent her and she had spent hours playing them, learning the songs and appreciating the solos. This was considerably slower than the Dorsey version, but she loved it anyway. She felt as though Jason was the entire saxophone section, solely responsible for the thrilling sound that floated from the stage to her ears and that he was playing just for her. She wanted to stand up and dance, to revel in the joy she felt. And when a simply beautiful ballad called _Moonlight Serenade_ ended, she wondered why more people didn't still listen to this music.

* * *

The Preservation Hall Jazz Band left the stage to sustained applause after two encores, and no one was more enthusiastic than Castle.

"Wow," he said, "I didn't know music could be that joyful, Beckett."

"So you liked it? That's great. I'll complete your musical education yet, Castle."

"And in the 'turnabout is fair play' department, it won't be long before _you'll_ have some bonafide geek credentials, too."

" _Geek_ credentials? You don't mean..."

"I _do_ mean. We agreed to learn about certain aspects of each other's lives, and for me, comic books are what I'm going to share with you next. Specifically, graphic novels. The art work is incredible." He kissed her before she could object.

"OK," she said after they parted, "and once that's over we'll move on to _real_ art."

" _Real_ art?"

"Yes. The kind of stuff I learned about at Stanford. Think of it, Castle! A city filled with museums, all of them waiting for me to take you by the hand and lead you through them." She smiled, but Castle took it as more of a smirk.

"You know, we don't have to do graphic novels. We can do science fiction. Or the Illuminati." She glared at him, and in desperation he added "Bigfoot?"

"Saving the most absurd part for last? No way. We've got a deal, Castle. Suck it up."

* * *

The first three songs were over, and each one had seemed better than the last. Then _Cotton Club Stomp_ began andMarilyn was ecstatic. By now the song was as familiar to her as any song she knew and even if the tempo was slower with Jason's band than on the CD, she was able to anticipate the melodic changes easily. Then Jason stood up for his saxophone solo and Marilyn grew tense.

It went perfectly. He had a way of swaying when he played, first bending one knee and then the other, back and forth while at the same time pushing himself up on his toes like he was riding a bike. She found it intensely endearing. She could see his fingers dancing, tracing nonsensical patterns on the horn that somehow coaxed exquisite music from it. She smiled when she saw the lines in his forehead that popped into existence as he concentrated, eyes closed, breathing through a metal tube. When the solo ended she was the first to applaud, and her hands turned red as she slammed them together. The song ended, and Marilyn took a few deep breaths and hoped that Jason was less nervous than she. Now she closed her own eyes, intent on listening without any distractions.

The auditorium had grown silent. Marilyn began to wonder if something had gone wrong. Then, just as she opened her eyes to investigate, _Embraceable You_ started.

And then Jason was singing.

And then he wasn't. Marilyn opened her eyes and saw him, standing in front of the microphone with a look of pure terror on his face. She saw Mr. Holland look at Jason with a finger to his lips to shush him lest he begin singing unexpectedly and making things worse, but he was looking straight ahead like he was staring at a car barreling down on him. For three more minutes he stood there, mute, and Marilyn desperately wanted to cry.

The song ended and Jason rushed from the stage. Marilyn darted up the stairs on the side of the stage past the surprised band members and ran after him. She heard a door close, and she followed Jason outside. He was leaning against the building, his face buried in the crook of his elbow. He was crying, and Marilyn put her arms around him. For a moment she just hugged him, but she wanted to say something consoling.

"If I had any Oreos, I'd share them with you," she offered. "I hear it helps when you're feeling down."

Jason looked at her, his eyes still overflowing with tears. "I blew it," he said. "I totally blew it. I'm such an asshole."

He pulled her into his arms and she held him and stroked the back of his head. Then, from out of the blue, he pulled his head back and sighed. She knew it was coming and she closed her eyes.

The kiss was brief, but soft, sloppy, spectacular and when they parted, they were both blushing so badly they had to avert their eyes.

"I hope that helped," she finally said. "But if it didn't, we can try again."

The sound of a door opening startled them and Marilyn saw Mr. Holland looking around. "I'd better go," she said, and ran round the corner of the building and stopped. She could hear Mr. Holland talking to Jason.

"There you are!" Mr. Holland said, and Marilyn expected him to have that heart attack, but to her surprise, he said "don't worry about it, Jason. It happens. There isn't a musician worth his salt in this whole city―in the whole world, probably―that hasn't had this very problem. It's practically a rite of passage. The important thing is to suck it up and bounce back quickly. If you can do that it'll make you a better musician."

"But I can't show my face to the band again," Jason said, his voice thick with emotion. "They must think I suck."

"I promise you they don't. You need to give them some credit, Jason. They all know it could have happened to any one of them. They didn't fall apart, either; they just kept playing, and they were great. They did that for you."

After a short pause to let Jason absorb this, he continued. "Listen, the audience is still in their seats waiting for _seniors_ to play. I think you should go right back out there and knock it out of the park. Don't panic, just take the sheet music with you and sing from it. You'll realize that the audience is nothing to fear, and the sooner you learn that, the better. The band will support you, I promise. And so will the audience. All you have to do is just concentrate on the song. What do you say?"

He said yes. As they entered the auditorium, without looking back, Mr. Holland held the door open for Marilyn.

* * *

"My most embarrassing moment?" Castle asked. "Well, if you really want to know, it was during the book tour for _Storm on the Horizon._ Kansas City was my seventh stop in three days, and to make matters worse, I had the flu, so I couldn't fly and I couldn't sleep. Now I wasn't about to blow off KC because I had done just that during my previous tour when Alexis had to have her tonsils out, so we chartered a bus in Denver and got to the hotel in Kansas City after eight hours of driving. I went straight to bed where I proceeded to take enough NyQuil to tranquilize a rhinoceros. Now this is supposed to be the 'nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy-head, fever, so you can rest' medicine, and I must have gotten a bad bottle because it didn't do shit. In the morning, after a breakfast of Alka-Seltzer and four cups of what turned out to be decaf coffee, I ended up at a place called, if you can believe it, _Uncle John's Groovy Bookstore and Java Hangout._ My eyes were bloodshot, pain radiated from my feet to the ends of my hair and my nose was so red that if I could fly, Santa Claus would shove me in front of his sleigh and shout 'mush!'"

Beckett laughed. "Maybe I should start calling you Rudolph. Does that make me Clarice?"

"Clarice?" Castle asked. "Who's that?"

"She's from the TV show _Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer._ Rudolph's crush, in fact. We can watch it in December, Castle. Consider it another notch in your Beckett belt."

"Anyway," Castle continued with a sneer, "Gina, who was still my bloodsucking publisher at the time, pushed me forward and I somehow managed to find the podium. I had no notes, no copy of my book and there were about ninety fans on the edge of their seats, which is troublesome at best when you have to wing it. My head was pounding, but I unwisely leaned forward to speak and tapped the microphone a few times as a sound check. But I had leaned over too far, and my ears were partially blocked from flu, so my sense of balance was way off. Finally, my momentum carried me forward, with the podium, not being nailed down, preceding me by about a half second. I landed right between the chairs of the president and vice-president of the _Greater Kansas City Richard Castle Fan Club_ and watched as shards of splintered wood flew into the air like the shootout in _The Matrix_. The microphone was jammed into my right eye, which swelled up like a soufflé inside of two minutes, I had lost my left shoe, which didn't match my right shoe anyway, and at just that moment, I decided to do a flu-induced imitation of Sneezy the Dwarf, starting with the leg of the mayor's wife, who, it should be noted, is no longer a fan."

"So she left the world of Castle fandom because of a simple snot rocket to her leg? Well, it sounds like she was just a fair-weather fan to begin with, Castle. You're better off without her."

"At this point, I really didn't have anything left to lose, so I got up, stacked the broken pieces of the podium to the side and gave an impromptu lecture from the Lotus position that was so incoherent it was written up in the paper the next day with the headline _Mystery Writer's Appearance A Perfect Storm Of Mishaps_ _._ That was when Gina became my bloodsucking _ex_ -publisher."

"That's some clever headline writer from Kansas City," Beckett said.

"Yeah, well, the entirety of the group I was traveling with, Gina included, didn't get it, so I guess the writer was _too_ clever. Or maybe the rest of the world is just clueless."

* * *

Jason closed his eyes and concentrated on the music, and this time, he nailed it. He opened his eyes and kept them glued to the sheet music. His voice was forceful and clear. In fact, he sounded better than Marilyn had imagined, and when the song ended the applause seemed to go on forever. As she stood there clapping Marilyn felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around.

"That was a really nice thing you did, Marilyn," said Jason's mom. "Thank you."


	6. Chapter 6

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Six_

 _Mrs. Fields' got nuthin' on us!_

" _Sometimes me think 'what is friend?' And then me say 'friend is someone to share last cookie with.'" —_ Cookie Monster

 _March 15, 1998_

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon in late winter, and Marilyn was sitting on a leather couch in Jason's living room looking bored while he rifled through his VHS collection. She turned her head toward the window to feel the early afternoon sun on her face, like Hypatia, and all cats, for that matter, did when looking for the perfect place to nap.

" _Fantasia_?" he suggested.

"Seen it," she shook her head.

"OK, what about _The Aristocats_?"

"I haven't seen _that_. What's it about?"

"It's a Disney cartoon about a rich lady who wills her money to her cats. Her butler discovers it and tries to get them out of the way. It's funny. And jazzy, too."

"Jazzy? I like that idea!"

Jason took the movie out and handed the box to Marilyn. She examined it and said "ooh, it looks great. What'll we have, cookies or popcorn?"

"You decide."

"OK. Cookies. Always cookies."

"You know what, though?" Jason groaned, "I'm sick of Oreos!"

"Yeah," Marilyn said, "I've had enough of them for three lifetimes. Do you have anything else? Fig Newtons or Sugar Wafers or something?"

"Hmm...maybe. But I have an idea. Come with me."

He took Marilyn's hand and led her into the kitchen. She watched him with fascination as he rooted through the pantry, moving cans of vegetables and boxes of Bisquick like a stock boy on inventory day. Soon he had a pile of items on the counter to his left.

"Mallomars?" Marilyn was hopeful, but prepared to be disappointed.

"These!" Jason announced triumphantly as he tossed a bag on the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen.

Marilyn saw the bag and grimaced. "Jason, I am not going to sit on your couch and shovel a bag of plain chocolate chips into my mouth with you. That's kind of gross."

"We're not going to shovel them anywhere. No shoveling! I'm going to make cookies with them. The recipe is right here on the bag." He held it up as if that explained everything.

"Wow," Marilyn said, "I did _not_ see that coming. OK, let's do it."

"Not we, me. I want to do this all by myself, for you."

"I feel so special, like the person who tastes the king's food to make sure it isn't poisoned," she laughed. She grabbed a stool, maneuvered around the kitchen to find the best vantage point, and sat patiently.

Jason ignored her. "Let's see, I need 2 ¼ cups of flour, a teaspoon of baking soda, a teaspoon of salt..."

"Don't forget to preheat the oven, Jason."

"Hey! No backstool driving. The success or failure of this mission all comes down to my ability to follow the world's simplest recipe." He scanned the bag and then quickly set the oven to 375 degrees.

"I would have gotten around to it eventually," he said while Marilyn laughed.

* * *

"Christmas cookies?" Castle said. "Alexis, that's a great idea!"

"Let's start with peanut butter," Alexis said. "They're my favorite."

"Mine, too. You clearly get your good taste from your old man. Let's find a recipe on the Internet."

Ten minutes later they stood in front of a pile of ingredients that would make a dentist weep.

"Good thing we already have everything we need," Alexis said. "I'd hate having to go down to the bodega for just a box of brown sugar."

"I have to admit I'm a bit surprised," Castle said. "Especially that we had baking soda _and_ baking powder. Who knew?"

"Will wonders never cease?" Alexis added with a raised eyebrow and her hands on her hips.

Castle laughed. "Where did you hear that?" he asked.

"Grandma. She says it every time you finish writing a book."

"Your grandmother is a very loving woman, once you cut through the cynicism. But let's get down to work." They exchanged a high-five and a laugh.

The first disaster happened when Castle forced open a bag of flour. It exploded like the dye pack on a bag of stolen money, covering a seven foot radius with a fine dusting of Gold Medal's finest.

"I should have had some raw chicken on that counter," Castle observed.

"I'll get the broom and dustpan, daddy."

"No, no. Once we do that, we'll still have to mop. But," he tapped his temple with his forefinger, "if we go straight to the mopping, we save time!"

"I don't think we're saving any time," Alexis said from the middle of a pile of floury sludge. "You're just making a bigger mess."

"I feel like I'm mopping the floor in a glue factory," Castle sighed.

"Try more _Mr. Clean_ , Alexis suggested.

"Good idea."

The second disaster happened when Castle decided to pour the cleaner straight on the floor instead of in the bucket. He tipped the bottle too far, spilling about a third of its contents. He then inexplicably tried to step over the goop, but he badly misjudged the extent of the spill and ended up on his butt with a thick paste of flour andammonia beneath him.

"Oops," Alexis said.

"I always wanted to be a flour child," Castle replied.

* * *

"Voila!" Jason said. "Chocolate chip cookies à la Jason. Well, cookie dough, anyway. All ready for the oven!"

"Yes," Marilyn said, "it certainly seems that way."

"What? What'd I forget?"

"Nothing, Jason. Besides, I wouldn't want to do any backstool driving."

"So stand up and tell me what I did wrong," he pleaded. "Please."

She stood. "I'm not kidding. From what I can see, you did everything exactly right, so shovel that dough in the oven and get them baking, please. I'm rather famished, you know."

"I already said no shoveling," he grinned.

The oven dinged.

"Wow," Marilyn said, "ten minutes really flies by when you're doing some serious kissing."

"Let's see what we've got," Jason said as he slipped on an oven mitt. He opened the oven door and they were hit with a heavenly, chocolatey aroma.

"Ooh, they smell delicious!" Marilyn said.

Jason placed the cookie tray on the counter. "Let's start watching the movie while they cool. Then we can take an intermission and pig out."

So they did.

* * *

"I give up," Castle said.

He was standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing an apron so covered with cookie detritus that it was impossible to see the words " _World's #1 Chef_ "emblazoned on it. There was flour in his hair and streaked across his forehead. Eggshells littered the sink. There was a stream of vanilla extract―which the recipe didn't call for―dripping off the counter and puddling on the floor, a cube of butter smeared across the refrigerator door and a bag of sugar turned upside down on the washing machine.

"Daddy," Alexis said as she glanced around the kitchen, "grandma is going to be furious when she gets home. It looks like we were robbed by the Keebler elves. And how did you get peanut butter on the ceiling?"

Castle looked up and sighed. "I have no idea. Must have been right before the smoke alarm went off."

He dropped onto a chair with a sigh just as the glob of peanut butter dislodged from the ceiling and fashioned itself into a festive Santa hat for him.

"I'm sorry this didn't work out," Alexis said. "I guess neither of us is exactly Julia Child."

"Yeah," Castle agreed. "Wait, what?"

For an answer, Alexis sat on Castle's lap and put her arms around him. He tilted his head so it rested against hers and they sat there in silence for a minute.

"You know what," Castle said, "if you want, I can give you one of your Christmas presents early. It might make you feel better. Would you like that?"

"Really? You bet I would!"

"Wait here," said Castle, and he was gone and back in a jiffy. Alexis tore off the paper with zeal and pulled out a large, heavy box.

"Laser tag?" she said, perplexed. "What's that?"

"It's a really fun game. We each get a laser gun and a vest. When one of us shoots the other, the vest beeps to indicate a hit. We run around the apartment trying to ambush each other. First one to ten hits wins."

"It sounds dumb, daddy."

Come on, Alexis. Give it a try."

She sighed. "OK. If you say so."

* * *

"Wow," Marilyn said, "an hour really flies by when you're doing some serious kissing."

"Very funny," Jason said. Do you like the movie so far?"

"I do. But it's almost over, isn't it? We'll only be able to enjoy your cookies for the last twenty minutes."

"We can find something else to watch. We still have a couple of hours before my parents get home."

Jason carefully transferred the cookies to a plate.

"The way you handle that spatula, you should take up fencing," Marilyn said as she filled two glasses with milk.

"Nah. That's just for guys in tights playing _Cyrano de Bergerac._ I'm not into drama." He did a little drum roll on his thighs.

"Ready, Marilyn?"

"Ready!"

The ritual played out the same way it did so often at the Oreo tree. They dunked their cookies, knocked them together and slowly took a bite.

* * *

"Richard!"

Martha hadn't taken more than three steps into the apartment when she noticed the disaster. The entire apartment was trashed, mostly from a spirited game of laser tag.

"Grandma, shh!" Alexis said from behind the couch. "You'll give my position away."

"Too late!" Castle shouted. He dove over the couch, rolled along the floor and stopped right next to Martha. He pointed his gun, but didn't get a chance to shoot. The beep on his vest sounded and he rolled his eyes.

"I win!" Alexis said. She held the laser gun over her head in triumph.

"Good game!" Castle conceded. He stood up and high-fived Alexis only to come face-to-face with a very annoyed Martha.

" _This_ is what you've been doing since I was gone?" she said.

Castle stared at the ground. "We tried to make cookies," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"With what, a tank?"

"It's my fault, grandma," Alexis said. "It was my idea in the first place."

"You are _not_ going to let Alexis take the blame for this, Richard!"

"No," Castle admitted, "I'm not. I'll get started on the clean up right away. I'll start in the kitchen. The damage is worst there."

"And?" Martha demanded.

"And I won't stop until I'm finished."

Two hours later, Castle finished the job in his bedroom. He was exhausted, and decided to call it a night. As he entered the living room, it hit him―that incredible aroma of freshly baked peanut butter cookies. He ran to the kitchen to see Martha wearing an apron and Alexis wearing a chef's hat.

"You're just in time, daddy," Alexis said.

"They smell wonderful, sweetie," Castle said as he swept Alexis into his arms.

"Grandma helped, too. And she made me wait for you before I had even one."

Martha smiled. Castle said "oh? Then what are these cookie crumbs on your lips?"

Alexis blushed and Castle kissed her. "Got 'em!" he said.

"Here, have a proper cookie," Alexis said, handing him one off the top.

Castle was in heaven. "Wow, these are fantastic!" he declared.

"Yeah," Alexis concurred, "Mrs. Fields' got nuthin' on us!"

* * *

The look of disgust registered on Jason's face first, but Marilyn beat him to the punch.

"What the hell? Jason, these are awful!"

"I don't know what I did wrong," he whined. "I followed the recipe to the letter!"

"Live and learn, Jason. And here's your first lesson. Grab your coat."

"Where are we going?"

"To the grocery store. I was there with mother yesterday and there were a few Girl Scouts out front. I'll buy us a box of _Thin Mints_ and we can finish watching the movie without destroying our sense of taste in the process."

She took his hand and led him outside.


	7. Chapter 7

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Seven_

 _...And All That Art_

" _Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time."_ —Thomas Merton

 _June 24, 1998_

Being in a subway station in summer always made Marilyn feel like a sausage being forced into its casing. She pushed her way through the crowd as elbows, hands and legs pushed and tugged at her, all of it made worse by the humidity and heat underground. She kept a close eye on Jason and they played the game with the finely honed skill of seasoned New Yorkers, pushing, ducking and evading people until finally making their way into the number four train.

"I've never been to a museum before," Marilyn said with her hand raised as though taking an oath. "This is all new to me." She spoke loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the train as it made its way up Lexington Avenue.

"In that case," Jason said, "you're going to have the best time today. There's so much to see and do. It's my favorite place in the whole world."

"Where else in the world have you been?"

He hesitated, chuckled. "OK, it's my favorite place in New York. But I fully expect it to be just as terrific when I visit the great cities of the world one day." He grinned. "When _we_ visit the great cities of the world."

He reached for her hand; she took it and blushed. He leaned in to kiss her but she shook her head.

"Not in public," she muttered.

"Why not? Look around―no one's paying any attention to us. Nobody cares."

He was right. The train wasn't at capacity, but there were enough people that two or three had to stand. They were either reading, listening to music with their eyes closed, or staring straight ahead with the look of pure boredom that was the hallmark of the endless plight of the commuter. She closed her eyes and Jason kissed her, coming away with a slight hint of scarlet on his smile.

"Mmm," he said. "Strawberry?"

She nodded. They passed the rest of the ride in silence, listening to the conductor until he finally announced their arrival at 77th street. Then they played the game again, in reverse, making their way through the crowd until they finally raced up the subway steps and into a bright, hot, loud Manhattan day.

"Ugh," Marilyn said. "It's no cooler here than it was in the subway station."

"Yeah. But it _is_ summer after all. I guess we shouldn't be surprised."

"Which way?" She turned around in a circle trying to orient herself.

"This way." Jason grasped her shoulders and pointed her west. "We go down 77th street to 5th Avenue, then right to 82nd street. It won't take long."

It didn't. They stood in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and looked at it in awe.

"Wow," Marilyn said, "this place is huge. I had no idea."

"It seems even bigger inside. Everywhere you turn there's something incredible to see. Let's go!"

Even early on a Wednesday morning the museum was crowded. Marilyn gasped at the domes, arches and Greek columns that surrounded her and had a sense that she had just bought a ticket out of New York and into the rest of the world.

"This is called _The Great Hall_ ," Jason said.

"It's like a cathedral or something," Marilyn whispered.

He laughed. "Yeah, but it's not, so you don't have to whisper. Now we don't have time to see my favorite exhibit―ancient Egypt―so I want to take you to see some paintings that I think you're gonna like. Not like the paintings at my house. This stuff is actually interesting. Come on, they're up these stairs."

They found themselves in the European Paintings Hall. Marilyn quickly felt a bit overwhelmed.

"Where do I start?" she asked.

"Anywhere. Just find a painting you like and look at it, and everything else will fall into place. It's easy."

Marilyn chose the largest painting in the hall. It was of a man wearing what she thought of as a pirate shirt, sitting at a table with his right leg strangely thrust forward. He was holding a quill and staring up at a woman wearing an elegant, flowing white dress. Like Marilyn, she had extremely long hair, which Marilyn liked. Her left arm rested on the man's shoulder, her right on the table. "They must be married," Marilyn said to no one. She ignored the various glass items on the table and floor and concentrated instead on the faces. They seemed neither happy nor sad to her, just― _there._ The plate next to the painting identified them as Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier and his wife, Marie-Anne Pierrette Paulze and the artist as Jacques Louis David. She knew she didn't have a chance of pronouncing the names, but she decided the painting was mysterious, and that made her like it. After looking at two more paintings, she searched for Jason and found him staring at a painting on the opposite wall. She stood next to him and took it in.

"Why are those men so sad?" she asked after a short inspection. "They look like they're about to cry."

"One of them is dead," Jason said, his voice nearly breaking. "Or maybe he's about to die."

Marilyn read the plate; it was another painting by Jacques-Louis David. "Death of sew-crates," she said, sounding the name carefully. Then she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around to see a tall woman smiling at her.

"It's pronounced Sock-ruh-tees," said the woman. "That's him, sitting up in bed. See that cup he's reaching for? It has poison in it, and that's what's going to kill him."

"Then why are the men sad," Jason asked, "if he hasn't drunk the poison yet?" Marilyn nodded in agreement.

"They all knew there was poison in the cup. Socrates, too. He was a martyr."

"What's that?" Marilyn asked.

"Someone who suffers, or even dies for what he or she believes. In his case, Socrates taught people a new way to think, and he denied the existence of the ancient Greek gods. He thought that you could explain things through science, reason and logic. This was threatening to the people with power so they sentenced him to die. He could have escaped, but he refused to. He believed in what he taught and he chose to die rather than give up those beliefs."

"That's morbid," Jason said.

"I don't think so," Marilyn replied. "I think it's courageous." She turned to the woman. "How do you know all that?"

"It's my job to know. I'm a summer guide here at the Met. My name's Kate. And I'm around here all day, so if you have any questions, just ask, OK?"

Marilyn reached out her hand and Kate shook it. "Pleased to meet you, Kate. My name's Marilyn and this is Jason. And yes, I'll make sure to ask." She smiled, but her mind was a million miles away. She was still thinking about the courage of Socrates.

* * *

"Castle, we are _not_ going to the Museum of the American Gangster," Beckett said with a laugh. "I get enough of that crap at work every day. Don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess so. What about the Met?" Castle knew perfectly well that she'd never go for the former, but he fully expected her to jump at the chance to visit the great Metropolitan Museum of Art.

"Nah. I've been there so many times it holds no mysteries for me anymore. Hazards of being an art history minor, I guess."

"I forgot you used to be a tour guide there."

"It was nothing so glamorous as that, Castle. I was just a summer volunteer when I came home from college."

"The Guggenheim then?" Castle suggested.

"What about the Whitney? It's dedicated to American art, I've only been there a handful of times, and they just moved into a brand-new building not far from here. Plus, I've been dying to see their exhibit called _America Is Hard to See._ "

"OK, Beckett, let's do it. It sounds like fun."

Castle was wrong.

"This piece is _incredible_ ," he said while perusing a painting called _Oriental – Synchromy in Blue-Green_. "At first, it just looks like random colors, but when I keep looking, strange shapes start to emerge. They're vague at first, but they coalesce into something that I can't quite verbalize. I suppose they mean different things to different people, but...I don't know. I can't put my finger on it."

"Maybe you just don't know enough art-speak," Beckett teased him. "This piece was inspired by a group of people smoking opium. See this bit here?" She pointed to a spot on the canvas and moved her hand in front of it. "It's a leg. And that's all I'm going to tell you. It'll be a much better experience if you discover the rest for yourself."

Castle moved slowly, taking his time with each piece, trying to understand them as best he could with his layman's eye. Beckett kept a close watch on him, taking a delight in the frowns, raised eyebrows, squints and smiles that accompanied her husband's burgeoning enthusiasm for a part of her life she thought they'd never share. The time passed quickly, and before she knew it, he sneaked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her while she was looking at a sculpture.

"Not _now_ , Diego," she whispered. "My husband's nearby."

"And he's famished," Castle said. "Does this place have a cafeteria?" He spun Beckett around and kissed her.

"Not as such. It has two pretty froufrou restaurants, though. Not really my style, Castle. I'd much rather just get a hot dog."

"So would I. Let's go."

* * *

Marilyn was staring at a painting so intently that for a moment, Jason thought she was asleep. He stood next to her and blew on her bare shoulder.

"I love this," she said without averting her gaze.

"It's pretty," Jason said without enthusiasm. He preferred paintings with people in them.

"It's so simple, Jason. Here, come up close and look." She pushed him forward. "Look here. The paint is sloppy―it's just piled on every which way. And this part here just looks like he thought 'why don't I put some blue here and see what happens?' But when you step back...I mean, just _look_ at it. It's perfect!"

Suddenly she had an idea. She turned around and bolted without a word. Jason hurried to keep up with her as she darted among the rooms.

"There she is!" Marilyn declared. She ran up and tapped Kate on the shoulder.

"Well, hello, Marilyn," Kate said. "How can I help you?"

"Can you tell me about a painting, Kate?"

"Or course. Which one?"

For an answer, Marilyn took off. She made her way back to the painting without hesitation, despite Jason's insistence that she was headed the wrong way.

"Ah, _Irises,_ " Kate said when she caught up. "One of our finest and most popular paintings. It's by Vincent van Gogh. He was a Dutch painter who lived in the 1800's. He was a complicated man, but all you really need to know is that he painted a lot, and his paintings are some of the most valuable in the world. He made many painting of Irises. This one isn't his most famous, but it has its charms."

"Do you have a pen and paper?" Marilyn asked Kate.

"I don't, but I can get one for you. I'll be right back."

 _I just love her enthusiasm_ , Kate thought. _I hope she never loses it._

A short while later Marilyn and Jason were headed back to the subway. Marilyn was clutching a poster tube in her left hand. The tube had a poster print of _Irises_ and a piece of paper with just three words on it: _Socrates_ and _van Gogh._ Her right hand was holding Jason's left.

* * *

"You know, Castle, today was a real flashback for me," Beckett said over a cup of coffee. "I watched you for a long time and you had the same kind of joy I used to see in children at the Met a long time ago. That kind of innocence is sweet."

"It was great," Castle admitted. "I wanted to experience more of your world, Beckett. I tried to come into it with an open mind and I think I'm finally beginning to understand it. Not a lot―at least not yet―but I'll keep working at it. Of course, things would go even better if I had a tutor."

"Oh? Well, maybe we can hire a pretentious grad student from Columbia who dresses all in black and will fill your head with things like 'this blank canvas distills painting to its very essence. It's a think piece to challenge the notion that art has to exist in any sphere of reality but instead can inhabit an existential Zeitgeist that awakens the inner art inherent in the eternal nothingness of empty space,' all while smoking cloves and drinking shocking amounts of coffee." She paused for effect. "Or _I_ can always give it a shot."

"How much do you charge?" Castle grinned.

"You're my first student, so you get my special introductory rate. Take me home and make love to me and I'll teach you as long as you want."

"It's a deal―as long as I'm the only one who gets the introductory rate."

They shook hands and finished their coffee. As Castle stood up to leave, Beckett stopped him.

"You know," she said, "if this teaching gig works out, we can always do some teaching together."

"You mean teach Sex Ed to a bunch of horny high schoolers?"

"I most certainly do not. I mean we can always have a Castle of our own."

Castle looked puzzled. "You mean the house in the Hamptons isn't big enough for you?"

"Rick!"

"I'm just kidding! I think it's a great idea. I've thought so since the moment you said 'I do.'"

"And we can be the baby's teachers," Beckett said. "And Alexis and Martha, too."

"Yeah. Now let's go home and get started on the first lesson."

"OK, but you have to pay up front."

So he did.


	8. Chapter 8

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Eight_

 _A Crescent Moon_

 _"Love is too weak a word for what I feel. I luuurve you, you know, I loave you, I luff you, two f's, yes I have to invent, of course I do, don't you think I do?"_ —Alvy to Annie in Woody Allen's _Annie Hall_

 _July 30, 1998_

"Where to now?" Marilyn asked.

"It's a surprise," Jason said. "But I promise you'll like it."

To his credit, Jason did have an unblemished track record in all the time they had been friends. Coney Island, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty―all the usual tourist traps, but to a 12 year-old girl who had never gone anywhere, it was still a new world and full of possibilities. The New York Public Library was especially fruitful as she emerged with books on Van Gogh and Plato. She sighed with contentment and began to whistle a little nonsensical tune.

"Happy?" Jason asked.

"Deliriously so."

She didn't elaborate. By this time, Jason had come to expect long stretches of silence from her. She had never offered to share the details of her relationship with her father and Jason didn't want to upset her, so he never asked. He decided to call upon his own musical muse and they walked down Southern Boulevard whistling in two-part dissonance. After a few minutes Jason stopped in front of a fence.

"The New York Botanical Gardens," he announced proudly.

Marilyn's face went blank. "What's there to do in a garden?"

Jason was caught off-guard. Up to now, Marilyn had been enthusiastic about every place they had been, and this was an ego blow. "Um—" he said, "we look at the plants and the trees. Learn about them." He tried to sound enthusiastic, but Marilyn still seemed uninterested. "Plus, they have lots of exhibits," he added. "Sculptures, waterfalls, bridges." He frowned, and Marilyn realized she had hurt him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to insult you. If you say it's good, then it must be."

* * *

"But Beckett," Castle whined, "I don't want to go to _The Old Haunt_. I want to stay home with my family on my birthday."

"You can't," Beckett said. "It's my job to get you out of the house while Alexis and Martha arrange your surprise party. And after what happened last time, we all realized we might have gone a bit overboard with that _Rear Window_ homage, so this time, it's going to be a simple, straightforward surprise party. Sort of a 'we're sorry we overdid it before' gesture. Don't resist, Castle. Just give in to the love."

Castle looked out the window of Beckett's car until something occurred to him. "Why did you spoil the surprise?" he asked.

"Because this way you won't fight me by insisting every few minutes with the petulance of a child that you want to go home. So now we can kill a couple of hours playing darts and having a beer and then go home where you will act suitably surprised. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

They drove another ten minutes before parking the car at a lot about a block from _The Old Haunt_.

"What time are we supposed to be back?" Castle asked.

"Eight o'clock," Beckett said. "And not a minute earlier so don't get impatient."

"I promise." He held up three fingers in the Boy Scout salute and crossed his fingers behind his back.

"I remember the last time you did that," Beckett said, "and unless you've become a Boy Scout sometime in the last six years, I'm not falling for it. And stop crossing your fingers. I'm not an idiot, you know."

Castle laughed and opened the door. The booths were empty and there was only a single person at the bar, nursing a beer and, apparently, a hangover.

"Boy, it's really dead in here," he said. "I'm―"

"SURPRISE!"

Castle jumped up as people started pouring into the room. Alexis and Martha appeared from behind the bar, champagne glasses in hand. Gates, Espo, Ryan and Lanie appeared out of thin air. Other friends and colleagues ran up and started pounding Castle on the back, hugging him and shaking his hand. The Beatles' _Birthday_ started playing but was quickly drowned out by the cheers.

"Gotcha!" Beckett said.

* * *

"This place is truly beautiful," Marilyn said as she and Jason sat on a bench in the middle of a grove of oak trees. "I'm glad we came." She held out a box of popcorn and Jason helped himself.

"I'm glad you're glad," he said between bites.

He took a few moments to contemplate their surroundings. This was a public place, filled with friendly people and helpful security guards. She had nothing to fear here, no reason, as far as he could tell, to retreat into her private musings as she so often did. After nearly three years, during which time they had spent more and more time together, he wanted to get her to finally open up to him, to let him inside her head where he could understand her better and help her deal with the pain her father was causing her. He looked at her with hope, but without expectation.

"So," he said, "you, me, trees and snacks. It's a pretty good combination."

She giggled. "Yeah, I'd say so. But when you think about it, we don't need the trees or the snacks. We're a pretty good combination all by ourselves."

"Yeah, we are." He felt a surge of hope in her reply; it was sweet and optimistic and it came with a beaming smile. He drew closer to her. She leaned in and kissed him, and this time, she didn't immediately pull away. It was a sweet kiss, soft, unhurried and romantic. Then they left to see what the rest of The New York Botanical Gardens would reveal.

* * *

Castle held forth in front of the crowd. "This is the first party I've ever been to where the topics of conversation ran the gamut from murder to forensics to detective work," he said, paraphrasing Dorothy Parker. He held up his champagne glass. "To my family and to the men and women of the twelfth precinct of the city of New York!"

There were cheers all around.

"OK, OK," Alexis said, "enough shop talk. It's time to open presents!" Castle rubbed his hands together like he was hatching an evil plan.

"I'm first!" Gates said. She handed Castle a small box with a simple red bow.

"Too heavy to be handkerchiefs," he said. He removed the bow and tore open the box.

"Oh, my. I'm...speechless, captain." He held up a New York detective's shield to oohs and aahs.

"It's honorary," Gates said, "so it's not real gold and you can't bring it to work with you. But I think you deserve it. There's a lot of people who found justice with your help, Rick. Thank you."

"Thank _you_ , Captain," Castle said, and he pinned the shield to his sports jacket and took a quick photo with Gates and Beckett. Lanie was next.

"Javy and I thought that you might need a little help with family planning," she said. She handed him a box and he tore it open and immediately started laughing.

"A Viagra prescription!" he shouted. He inspected the slip. "Wait...this one is made out to Javy."

Laughter shook the room. "Look under the tissue paper," Javy said, desperate to deflect attention away from his rapidly reddening face.

"Ooh, two tickets to see _The Audience_ on Broadway."

"With Helen Mirren?" Beckett asked as she grabbed the tickets from Castle.

"That's the one," Castle replied. "Thank you, Lanie. Thank you, Espo. Mother and I are going to have a great time seeing this." Beckett, despite cooing over the tickets, shot him a playfully wicked glare.

Ryan stepped up and placed a large box on the table in front of Castle. "Careful with this, Rick," he said. "It's fragile."

Castle carefully worked the box open and gasped. He extracted a large ceramic sculpture of a castle and placed it on the table for all to see. It was tall, glazed and finely detailed with a surrounding wall, a gate and watchtowers. He turned it around, examining it from every angle. "It's beautiful," he said.

"Jenny and I wanted to help you with your new art appreciation," Ryan said, "so we made this for you. She sculpted it. I painted it."

Castle inspected the sculpture again before thanking Jenny and Ryan.

* * *

Marilyn turned around a bend and stopped dead in her tracks with a look of such incredulity on her face that Jason felt instantly vindicated. He stepped back and watched as Marilyn slowly turned in a circle.

"Irises," she said. "Irises everywhere."

She took Jason's hands, looked deeply into his eyes and smiled. At first it was just a slight movement at the corners of her mouth, more of a suggestion than an outright smile, but it was enough to stop his heart. She teased him, bending her mouth so slowly that he didn't notice it, like the hands on a watch. Suddenly the curve of her lips was complete and her smile appeared, beaming like a crescent moon on a clear summer night. Jason was transfixed, mute. But then something astonishing happened. The light behind Marilyn began to wane, as though day was turning into night in a matter of seconds.

 _An eclipse?_ Jason thought, before realizing that it was all in his mind. Marilyn was shining so intensely it seemed as though she had absorbed all the light from the sun and there was nothing left for the rest of the world. And now, after three years of cookies, long walks, subway rides, museums, jazz, movies, hand holding and kisses, it was finally time.

"Happy birthday, Marilyn," he whispered. "I love you."

* * *

"My turn, Richard," Martha said, "and I must admit, I had help picking this out for you. You see, you are a man who already possesses just about every toy an adult boy could possibly want. Anyway, here you are." She handed Castle a small, square box and he made short work of it.

"A Reggie Jackson autographed baseball!" he said. "Oh, it's great. Thank you, Mother."

"I remembered he was your favorite player when you were a boy. Oh," she added, "I almost forgot. It came with this certificate of authenticity." She handed him a large envelope.

"My God," Castle said as he read the certificate, "it's the third home run ball that Reggie hit in game six of the 1977 World Series!" His voice got higher and louder with each word and his face grew pale from blood loss.

"I'm guessing that's good then, Richard."

"No, mother. It's _fantastic_. Thanks again." He hugged her and kissed her on the cheek.

"OK," Alexis said as she handed Castle his gift, "keep in mind that unlike the rest of you working stiffs, I am a struggling college student with a teeny, tiny allowance that barely covers expenses."

"Nice try," Castle said. "I've already got my accountants on speed dial." He opened the box and pulled out an 8 by 10 black and white portrait of himself and Alexis in a crystal frame.

"Honey, it's beautiful. In fact, it's perfect. Thank you."

"Remember that when you see what Kate got you."

Beckett handed Castle a box. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and stepped back without saying a word. The next thing anyone knew, Castle's was holding onto something with trembling hands. He hadn't pulled the item out of the box far enough for anyone to see what it was, but his eyes were fixed on it and based on the look on his face, Beckett couldn't tell if he was overcome with elation or regret. But looks can be deceiving, as Beckett had learned from years of interrogations, and she knew from the moment she got it that her gift was spot-on.

"It's an original Graham's Magazine, from 1841," Beckett said. "It has the first ever printing of Edgar Allen Poe's story _The Murders in the Rue Morgue._ "

Castle turned around without a word and stood still. His right arm moved up to his face, lingered a moment, then dropped to his side. Beckett grabbed the offending limb, wrapped it around her waist and then put her arms around his shoulders.

"Happy birthday, Rick," she whispered. "I love you."

"I love you too, Kate," he said through salty tears.

* * *

"I love you too, Jason," Marilyn said.


	9. Chapter 9

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Nine_

 _A Trip, a Gift and a Secret Revealed_

 _There's nothing half so pleasant as coming home again—Margaret Elizabeth Sangster_

 _August 8, 1998_

Marilyn felt uneasy about returning to the Met without Jason. After all, he had taken her there when it was unlikely she'd have ever gone on her own and in doing so opened up a whole new world of which she was still just scratching the surface. But with Jason in California on vacation she justified the idea by declaring it educational. It was another blistering hot summer day, made even worse by a thick humidity that made her feel like she was walking through an enormous, sopping sponge. The train ride was boring without Jason (and she cursed herself for not bringing her new CD of Miles Davis's _Birth of the Cool_ ), so she passed the time by doodling in her notebook. The moment she saw the Met again, her heart soared and she instinctively reached out for Jason's hand and frowned when it wasn't there.

She poked around the Ancient Egypt display first, determined to impress Jason with some Egyptian facts the next time she saw him. She read every description, took careful notes and tried to be as thorough as possible. When she finally thought to consult a clock she was shocked to discover she had been there for three hours. Not wanting to sacrifice any more time, she quickly made her way to the European Paintings Hall and took a closer, more measured look at _The Death of_ _Socrates._ She wrote down a couple of new observations and made her way back to _Irises._ She had only been there for a few minutes when she heard a familiar voice call her name. She turned around to see Kate, smiling as usual.

"Nice to see you Marilyn," Kate said. " _Irises_ again? I'm not surprised. Lots of people have spent many hours here getting lost in that work. I don't think there's a more popular painting in the whole museum."

"It's easily my favorite," Marilyn said. "And it's funny, because I've studied it at home and I thought I knew every inch of it by heart. Yet being here, standing in front of it again is so much better! You can see things up close that no book can show."

She pointed to the tallest iris. "You can see spots here where the white didn't quite cover the background, like van Gogh was in a hurry. But I don't think that he cared about little details like that. He's more of an "overall feeling" type of painter, or, dare I say it, a "big picture" painter. I've noticed this with a lot of paintings; they look like nothing at all up close. In fact, this painting and some of Monet's, if you stand too close you don't have a clue what the painting's about. But if you step back and look again, it's completely different; the flowers, the vase―even the table, which is just a big rectangle―they sort of appear out of thin air. And if you take it all in and know every inch of the painting and then get up close again, even when you know what you're looking for and where it is, it's nowhere to be found. It's amazing."

Kate was unable to contain the look of astonishment on her face. "Marilyn," she asked, "how old are you?"

"I'm 12. Why?"

"Because you know more about painting than any 12 year-old I've ever met. I'm very impressed."

"I've been reading a lot, Kate. Not just about painting, but about philosophy, too. Not just Socrates either, but he's my favorite. He had a student named Plato who wrote books about what Socrates taught. I tried reading Plato's books, but they're too hard so instead I read what other writers said about him. The language is easier and I'm learning a lot. Remember when I was looking at the _Death of Socrates_ painting and you told me there was poison in that cup? It was hemlock. That's the poison Socrates drank."

"Really? I had no idea," Kate lied. She looked at her watch. "Marilyn, I'd love to stay and talk some more, but I have to give a tour in a few minutes. I'm here all day though, so find me if you have any questions, OK?"

"OK, Kate." She held up her notebook. "And this time I came prepared."

* * *

 _August 20, 1998_

They met, as usual, at the Alice in Wonderland bronze in Central Park. Marilyn was inexplicably nervous, which she attributed to time spent apart from her best friend. She got there a few minutes before Jason and sat down with her Walkman. She closed her eyes for a bit while listening to the end of _Sketches of Spain_ (Miles Davis being her new favorite musician)and when she opened them again, he was standing next to her, grinning. She stood up for a kiss and a hug and he happily obliged.

"I missed you," Jason said. "That was the longest two weeks of my life, and let me tell you, Los Angeles isn't that great. But there are a few good things there and I got you something. Here."

He handed Marilyn a shopping bag with the words _The Getty Museum_ on it. She smiled when she saw the name, knowing it was a treasure trove of artistic delights. She reached inside the bag and pulled out a large, heavy book.

" _Van Gogh's Flowers_?" she shrieked while hopping a little happy dance. "Oh Jason, it's beautiful! And _Irises_ on the cover, too. This must be the other painting that Kate told us about. It's in the museum, right? The Getty?"

"It sure is, and it's amazing. There were so many people crowded around it that I had to wait about fifteen minutes just to see it. My dad thought I was crazy, turning down a Dodgers game to go to a museum, but he finally realized I'm my mother's son, too, and anyway there was no way in hell I was going to be in the same city with that painting and not see it for myself. I just wish you could have been there with me."

"I do, too. Oh, this is wonderful."

"And I even got a little bonus to boot. My dad took the day off to take me. Going to L.A. was actually a business trip for him, and he was spending all day every day at the office. Finally, my mom yelled at him to spend some time with me. He put up a fight, but in the end he figured that maybe a baseball game would do me some good. Kind of toughen me up, I guess. So he was pretty pissed when I told him I wanted to go to a museum instead. You should have seen his face; I thought he was going to burst a vein. He probably thought my mom put me up to it."

Marilyn laughed and covered her mouth with her hand. "Listen," Jason continued, "I hate to do this, but I have to go back home because we're going to my grandma's house for dinner and the world's most boring slide show. My mom the photographer must have taken a picture of every star on that street in Hollywood. But anyway, I wanted you to have this book right away. How about we meet here tomorrow at 11:00 and I'll tell you more about L.A.?"

"OK. And..."

She stopped and bit her lower lip. Jason brushed her hair from her eyes with his right hand and put his left hand on her cheek. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just...I think I'm ready to tell you my secret."

He kissed her, slowly, softly, sweetly. "OK," he said. He moved his mouth next to her ear and whispered into it. She smiled and did the same. Then he left and she watched him until he disappeared and she sat down to spend the next hour with van Gogh and his magical, mystical mélange of flowers.

* * *

 _August 21, 1998..._

...was another bright, sunny day in New York. Marilyn was early, Jason right on time. He found her with her face buried in her new book and she was reading with such concentration that he waited a couple of minutes before tapping her on the back. She carefully placed a bookmark on her page and closed the book with the care of a museum curator working on an ancient manuscript.

"Ready?" he asked after they kissed. He gave himself a mental kick when he realized he had just expected her to blurt out her most closely guarded secret to half of Central Park. He told himself to slow down and let Marilyn tell him on her own terms. The breakthrough, he knew, would be that she confided in him, not that she set a speed record in doing so. He put on his most bashful expression and waited.

"Not quite," Marilyn replied. "Let me tell you about last weekend, first."

She told him about her return to the Met, impressed him with the facts and figures about Egypt that she had spent the past week memorizing and included her most recent encounter with both _The Death of Socrates_ and _Irises._

"You're not mad that I went without you?" she asked after finishing her recap.

"Mad? Of course not. We were on different sides of the country and we both did the same thing! When I was at the Getty, I spent the whole time thinking how much better it would be if you were there with me, and I'm sure you did the same at the Met."

"I did," Marilyn said. "I thought about you constantly."

"So the way I see it, we were having a shared experience, 3,000 miles apart and on different days. How cool is that?"

"Yeah," she laughed, "that's pretty cool."

Silence. Marilyn had tried to figure out how to tell Jason about her family, going over pretend conversations for the hundredth time. She wished now that she had worked something out and memorized it instead of the Egypt facts. She could feel her pulse pounding and beads of perspiration began to form on her upper lip. She looked up at the sun and squinted, then wiped her face with her hand.

"Maybe you'd like to―" Jason began, but she quickly cut him off.

"Let's find someplace a little more private," she said. They walked for a while until they found a secluded spot near some trees.

"Jason, you know my dad's a drunk," she began. "But what I didn't tell you is that he was in jail. He mugged a guy on the street for ten lousy bucks. And now he's out, and I'm afraid of what he might do. He's hit my mom before, and I don't want things to get even worse."

She turned her head away and sat on the ground. He sat down next to her and put his arms around her. He held her silently. She looked at him and her face was red with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't want that to happen."

"I want to say this as sensitively as I can," Jason said. "Has your dad ever hit _you_?"

"No. No way. But he and mom argue a lot. It's terrible and I can't stand it. But I've figured out a way to deal with them, though. I cover my windows with black sheets and put a towel at the door to make my room as dark as I can. The only light is from the TV, and I put on my headphones, too. This way I can't hear them screaming at each other. It's not perfect, but it's better than nothing."

"And he's never hit you?"

"No. At least not yet."

"Have you told anyone at school about it? They might be able to help."

"My mother told me not to. She said if that happened, they'd take me away from her, and she wouldn't be able to take that. And neither would I."

Tears spilled out from her eyes and fell down her cheeks. Jason held her tightly and told her that he loved her.

All around them, New York itself remained indifferent.


	10. Chapter 10

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Ten_

 _Neil Who?_

" _For my part, I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream."_ —Vincent van Gogh

 _August 29, 1998_

Jason pushed open the door with a grunt.

"Well, we finally made it," he declared. "The roof of your new apartment building."

"Stupid broken elevator," Marilyn said. "Ten more seconds of those stairs and I would have passed out. We should have waited until next weekend to come up here. I'm still sore from packing and moving all those heavy boxes.

"Is that what you were doing?" Jason laughed. "I thought you were, you know, supervising."

"An optical illusion, Jason. Besides, I did a lot of work before you showed up. I'm just glad my new apartment is on the ground floor. And that reminds me of something. My mom couldn't be happier. She told me you're a very nice young man to offer to help. Of course, that was after warning me that there would be other boys in my life and I shouldn't get too hung up on you. I guess she has to say that though, doesn't she? She said it was the same advice passed from mothers to daughters for thousands of years."

"Not just mothers to daughters. My mom told me the same thing about you. She seems to think that all I need is a couple of years to grow into my personality and the girls won't be able to leave me alone. In other words, she's full of it. Besides, what do I want with anyone else? I have you, and that's not only good enough now, but it will be forever. And now that that's settled..."

Marilyn took the cue and moved in close. They kissed, and Jason moved his hand to the small of Marilyn's back. He didn't dare go lower, which was good because she was prepared to swat his hand away the moment he tried. Still, Jason found the sensation was more visceral than tactile and he imagined that she was transmitting something of her soul through her nerves where it leaped out of her body to his hand and then up his arm and into his heart. He tried to part her lips with his tongue, but she was having none of that, either.

"Nice try," she said, and he blushed. She wagged her finger at him playfully.

They looked around. The roof was old and neglected. To the left were rows of boxes now overgrown with weeds that were a feeble attempt at a garden in days long past. Lined up against the far edge was a dilapidated washer and dryer with two ratty couches for accompaniment.

"What a pit," Jason said, kicking an empty beer can.

"Yeah," Marilyn agreed. She saw something behind him and moved to the side for an unobstructed view. "Hey, look, Jason. Lounge chairs."

A quick inspection showed them to be clean and bug-free. "They must have been put here recently," Marilyn observed. "Why don't we lie down and talk?"

"I feel like an old man," Jason said as he sat down. "Every muscle in my body aches."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Marilyn replied as she stretched.

"So...are you looking forward to going to Muir?" Jason began. "Our last step before high school."

"I don't know. Kind of, I guess. Part of me wants to go to parties and play soccer and volunteer at the recycle center. But the other part of me is afraid of losing you."

"Losing me? Don't be crazy. You can still do all that stuff if you want. We'll still be at the same school, so I can even do them with you if you want. And even if I don't, I'll still be your boyfriend."

"My boyfriend?" Her perplexed response took him by surprise.

"Aren't I? I mean, you don't go around kissing other boys, do you?"

"No, of course not. It's just that I never thought of you in that way before."

"Well, then you should start. And with that in mind, we should spend tomorrow, our last free summer day, doing something awesome. Something we haven't done before."

They laid there, staring at the night sky, trying to think of something to do. The hum of New York hovered in the background―cars honking, helicopters overhead, loud music from seemingly all around them, the occasional siren and, somehow, snatches of a thousand conversations.

"Wow," Jason said a few minutes later, "a shooting star! I'll bet we'd see a million stars if we were in the country, away from all the city lights."

" _That's_ an idea," Marilyn said.

"What is? You want to go to the country?"

"No, but why don't we go to the Hayden planetarium tomorrow? Miss Gianpietro told us about it in science class. It sounds great. We can see the stars that way."

He nodded. "Yeah, it does sound pretty cool. OK, tomorrow we'll go. I'll pick you up at 11. And when my mom asks me where I'm going, I'll tell her that I'm going to the Hayden planetarium with my girlfriend."

* * *

"Beckett, you have more shoes than Meredith and Gina put together," Castle protested.

"Really?" Beckett said from behind a wall of boxes.

"No, of course not. It's just that this is the eleventh box of shoes that I've opened and put in _your_ closet in _our_ home. I don't want my own shoes to get an inferiority complex."

" _Our_ home. I like the sound of that. But you should know that I got every pair of shoes in those boxes on sale. You get everything from Neiman Marcus. $900 for Valentino sneakers? No inferiority complex _there._ "

"How did you know that?"

"I heard your mom telling her boyfriend on the phone. I think she was doing a little bragging about how successful you are."

"Ugh. I hate it when you use that word. Especially about Benny."

"What word? Boyfriend?"

"Yes. At least, don't use it when talking about mother. It brings to mind all kinds of unpleasant scenarios. Mother and Benny doing... _things_. Eww."

"You're jealous, Castle. Benny is taking your mother's attention away from you and you can't handle it."

"I _can_ handle it," Castle whined. "I don't mind her dating, but I don't want to know any details, just like she'd never want to know any details of our sex life."

"Speaking of our sex life, we're all alone in our home. Perhaps we should get busy christening it."

"Why Kate Beckett, that's a wonderful idea. Where should we get started?"

"How about the roof?"

"The roof? Never!"

"OK, then the kitchen. I'll show you more ways to use chocolate sauce than you ever dreamed."

So she did.

* * *

"The American Museum of Natural Science," Jason said as he stared at a statue of Theodore Roosevelt on horseback. "We're almost exactly opposite the Met. It's just on the other side of the park."

Marilyn glanced over her shoulder, but all she could see were trees and a path that led through them. They bought tickets for a show called _An Insider's Tour of the Universe_ at 2 p.m. and spent their time looking at the highlights of the dinosaur exhibit. Finally, they made their way into the planetarium at 1:45 and took a seat. It was crowded, but not sold out. In the middle of the room was the projector, a wild cylinder with a bulb on each end and little lenses peppered all over it, making it look like a ray gun or an alien bulb covered with crystals. It was supported by large arms on either side and pointed at the ceiling, making Marilyn think of Marvin the Martian. She wondered where the Illudium Q-36 Explosive Space Modulator went. The music, typically, was new-age, vaguely spacey music that was intended to set the mind thinking about the stars. The lights were dim, and there was a purple glow around the perimeter of the dome.

"This is cool," Marilyn said, taking Jason's hand.

"It sure is."

The lights came up and a tall, imposing man entered the room.

"Good afternoon," he said. "My name is Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson. Our regular presenter is sick today, so I'll be taking over."

His voice was deep and authoritative, but friendly and both Marilyn and Jason instantly liked him.

"Today's show is nothing less than a tour of the Cosmos as we know it. We're going to work from our own solar system to the edge of the universe, starting with... _the sun!_ "

His voice boomed on the last two words and the room went dark for just a moment before a huge fireball exploded into view and filled most of the dome. A massive orchestral burst filled their ears and Marilyn's hand trembled against Jason's as the splendors of the universe unfolded before them.

* * *

"That was incredible," Beckett said from the floor of Castle's office.

"I work on that desk," Castle frowned.

"I'd say you did your _best_ work on that desk. Except when you rolled on top of your stapler," she laughed.

"Yeah. Thank goodness it was empty or you'd still be pulling staples out of my butt. I don't know how I missed that when I swept everything else off."

"You were very 'take-charge' there, but your laptop did take a pretty nasty fall. I hope it still boots up. But which room did you like best, Castle? The bathroom? You seemed pretty into it during that shower. It never occurred to me to use soap-on-a-rope like that."

"Actually, I liked the laundry room. Turning the dryer on first was a stoke of genius. Talk about hot! Maybe next time we'll throw some sneakers in there. Get some good vibrations going."

He turned his head suddenly. "Shh! Did you hear that?"

"Hear what? I didn't hear anything." They craned their necks back and forth like kittens watching a game of ping pong. Then they both snapped their heads to the left at the distinct sound of giggling from another room.

"Damn," Castle said. "I have to remember to take Alexis' key back."

* * *

The lecture ended and the lights came up. Marilyn and Jason were blown away. As Dr. Tyson asked for questions, Marilyn's hand instantly shot up. Hers was the fourth question Dr. Tyson took.

"First of all, that was great," Marilyn said. "I learned a lot. My question is this: having dedicated your life to science, can you still find time for art?"

"Absolutely," Dr. Tyson replied. "In fact, I see art _in_ science. When I look at the night sky, or at pictures taken by the Hubble Space Telescope, it's just as amazing to me as when I stare at the beautiful paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. When I look at the structure of crystals under a microscope, it's like looking at the architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright. I even have a print of a van Gogh painting in my office. It's called _Starry Night,_ and it's the first painting I know of where the background, the night sky, the stars themselves, were more important than the foreground. If you like art and you like science, this is the perfect intersection of both."

"You have a van Gogh in your office?" Marilyn's voice broke in ecstasy.

"No. I have a _print_ of a van Gogh. The actual painting would be astronomically expensive." He giggled at this little joke and thanked Marilyn for her question.

Later, in the gift shop, Marilyn found a necktie with a print of _Starry Night._ She snapped it up immediately and got in line at the cash register.

"Thanks and all," Jason said, "but I never wear ties."

"It's for Dr. Tyson," Marilyn said. "I'm going to send it to him to thank him for the lecture. I hope he wears it."

* * *

"Is the moving all done?" Sandra asked that night.

"Yes," Marilyn said, her voice breaking. She held her hand against her mother's cheek.

"It'll be all right," Sandra said. "The important thing is we have a new place to live. Someplace your father doesn't know about, and we can be safe."

"But he knows where you work," Marilyn cried. "He can get you again, and you'll end up back in this awful place, or..."

"That won't happen. The police will pick him up soon. And Detective Montgomery told me that he'll be put away for a long time. He promised."

She took Marilyn's hand. The only sounds were the beeps and hisses of the intensive care ward at Lenox Hill hospital, the labored breathing of Sandra Singletary and the soft weeping of her daughter.


	11. Chapter 11

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Eleven_

 _John Gotti AND Joey Buttafuoco?_

" _The world would be a nicer place if everyone had the ability to love as unconditionally as a dog." —_ M.K. Clinton

 _October 24, 1998_

"A puppy?" Marilyn exclaimed. Her eyes grew wide and she clapped her hands.

"I didn't say a puppy," Sandra replied, "I said a dog."

Marilyn was crestfallen. "Why not a puppy?" she pleaded. "It turns into a dog, and you get the whole puppy experience first. It's a win-win situation, mom. You just have to wait a little longer to get a check mark in _your_ win column."

Sandra exhaled deeply. "I have to tell you something."

Marilyn panicked. She knew her mother had something on her mind for the past few days. The signs were all there―the half sentences, long hugs, deep sighs. Marilyn didn't want to push the issue, though, knowing that Sandra would come around eventually. Now that it was here, she took a seat at the table across from her mother and said "what?"

"Your dad is getting out of jail soon. They're letting him go early because the jail is overcrowded. Makes no sense to me, but I don't make the laws. Now," she sighed, "I want you to have a dog for protection, Marilyn. A trained dog, not a puppy, to be here with you when I'm not home and also when you're out and about. It's as simple as that."

"He's getting out?" Marilyn seemed to have missed the importance of everything else her mother said and her voice sounded weak and frightened.

"Yes. I wish he wasn't, but there's nothing we can do about it. There's something else, too. I'm telling you this because you deserve to know, and I think you can handle it. In other words, I trust you."

She looked as serious as Marilyn had ever seen her. "What is it, mom? You're right, you can trust me."

"I...bought a gun last week and I'm getting trained in how to use it," Sandra said. "If your father tries to get into this apartment, I'll protect us both. I'm not going to let him put me in the hospital again, and I'm sure as _hell_ not going to let him touch you. But understand this―it's for me only. You will not _ever_ lay your hands on it. And I don't want you to mention it to anyone, even Jason. Do you understand?"

Marilyn nodded. The color had left her face and she immediately thought of all those newspaper stories of household gun accidents—toddlers finding an unlocked gun and accidentally shooting a parent, a sibling or themselves. Then she thought of her father coming after her mother and she went to her room and spent the rest of the night in darkness.

* * *

"A bird?" Martha exclaimed. "Whatever for, Richard?"

"For companionship, mother. You're of a certain age now, and―"

She cut him off with a look of pure malevolence. "A certain age? What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Oh, no. You're not going to get me to feel guilty about this. It simply means that you're a senior citizen, and on those nights that you don't have a date, it would be nice for you to have a bird. You can teach it to talk, mother, it's a myna. And besides, look at it. Isn't it cute? " He wagged his finger at the bird.

"No cuter than the inside of my pillow."

Castle sighed. "Well, at least you're going into it with an open mind."

"You know, Richard, a long time ago I did my very first Broadway show with Rich Little, the impressionist. He was billed as 'the human parrot,' if you can believe anything so absurd. I worked my tail off for that show. I was convinced it was a 'make-it or break-it' shot. Well, it closed after a single performance. He was awful―all over the map. His John Wayne sounded like Ethel Merman and his Jimmy Stewart sounded like Mickey Mouse. I hated him. I went home that night with boos echoing in my ears, convinced I had no future on Broadway. I've never forgiven him for that."

"To be fair, mother, Rich Little is one of the best there is. Maybe he was like you, just starting out. Scared. Nervous. Did you think of that?"

"Of course I did, but it didn't matter to an irrational 22 year-old." She stood near the birdcage and waved. "Hello, Rich Little," she said.

"Hello, Rich Little," said the newly christened Rich Little.

"I'll be damned. That's what his JFK sounded like."

* * *

Marilyn and Sandra would have thought The Daisy Hill Puppy Farm and Training Center was deserted were it not for the deafening sound of baying dogs. The salesperson, dollar signs in his eyes, hurried toward the only two people looking around.

"Not a beagle in sight," Marilyn observed.

"I can't believe a trained dog is so expensive," Sandra said as she read the handout she picked up at the door. "There's no way we can afford one." The salesperson heard this and did an abrupt about-face.

"Then a puppy it is!" Marilyn declared triumphantly. "I'll raise it and train it to love me and you and Jason and it'll dance and make friends with birds and speak French and have hilarious fights with beach chairs."

Sandra laughed. She still thought getting a grown dog was better, but the joy in Marilyn's face was too much to deny. "OK, we'll make it a puppy. But we'd better hope it has an abnormal growth spurt, and pronto. Let's head to a shelter in the city."

"No puppies," Marilyn shouted over the sound of dozens more barking dogs and the yowling of a single, terribly annoyed Siamese cat. "What kind of a world do we live in?"

"It's the kind of world that loves puppies a lot more than it loves dogs," Sandra said. "Puppies get older, a little harder to handle, they eat more. Pretty soon the appeal wears off for some people."

"Well that isn't going to happen to me. I refuse to let it. My dog is going to be mine for life."

They continued to poke around, rejecting anything that Sandra thought wouldn't project sufficient ferocity, including a hyper Boston terrier and a slobbery cocker spaniel. Finally, Sandra stopped at a cage and took a long gander at a Great Dane.

"Look at this tough guy," she said. "He'll protect you from anything."

"Not without Fred, Daphne, Velma and Shaggy, he won't. Mom, that dog needs a spooky castle to roam around in, not a New York apartment."

"Yeah, you're right. Let's keep looking."

It took a half hour before they both agreed on a dog. It was a German Shepherd mix, a bit smaller than a purebred, but still menacing enough to instill fear in most mortals. "Besides, he probably won't have to go on the attack anyway," Marilyn said. "Jason said most people will flee as soon as they hear barking. A dog is really more for intimidation than enforcement."

Sandra considered that and decided it had merit. A helper came around and leashed the dog. As they were filling out the adoption forms Marilyn said "his name is General Sherman? No, no, that won't do." She wrapped her hands around the dog and got a face full of kisses. "From now on your name is Socrates Van Gogh."

Sandra laughed, Marilyn smiled and Socrates Van Gogh wagged his tail for all he was worth as he got ready to head to his permanent home.

* * *

"Martha. Come on, Rich Little, you can do it. Martha. Maaaaartha."

"I don't think I've ever seen your mother so persistent," Beckett said. "She dotes on that bird."

"Yeah," Castle agreed. "She won't admit it, but she _is_ enjoying having a pet."

He sighed and stared at Martha for a while, replaying precious memories in his head. Martha taking him to his first day of school. Helping him as he sounded out words when learning to read. Playing nurse when he was sick. Then doing it all over again with Alexis. They were all so fleeting yet perfectly vivid and he watched her with a mixture of sadness and elation.

Beckett held out her hand. "Here you go, Castle. A nice cup of peppermint tea. Just what you need when cooped up inside on such a blustery day."

He took a sip and said "I'd better get to work. I have to finish the outline in two weeks or I can kiss my advance goodbye."

He sat down at his computer and the words began to flow. He realized that the metronome-like quality of Martha's voice soothed him. At least as long as Rich Little didn't speak up.

But he did, and Castle was furious at being awakened.

"Martha! Martha!" intoned the bird, along with an assortment of whistles accompanied by the sounds of New York―honking horns, jack hammers, sirens, snatches of random conversations. Rich Little, it turned out, was an accomplished mimic and the irony was much to Castle's disdain. He found his phone and checked the time.

"Four!" he shouted. "I have to be up in three hours."

"Maybe Martha forgot to cover his cage," Beckett offered. They got up and made their way to the living room. The cage was covered.

"Its mother must have been a hamster," Castle said, "and it's gone nocturnal."

There was a sound outside the front door. "Beckett, get your gun!" Castle said. Before she could even turn around, the door opened and Martha stepped inside.

"Martha!" chirped Rich Little.

"Shh," Martha whispered, "you'll wake them up."

Castle flipped on the lights and Martha froze. "Too late for that, mother. Where were you?"

"Not that it's any of your business, Richard, but I had a date." She took off her coat and slammed her purse on top of it, a statement she hoped would be more meaningful than it turned out. Castle wasn't deterred.

"A date? At _this_ hour? With whom?"

"If you're going to give me the third degree, can you at least put on a robe? It's disconcerting to talk to my grown son when he's standing there in his skivvies."

"No, I won't. If I grab my robe, you'll sneak off to bed and we need to talk about this now."

"What's to talk about? I met a man named McGee, Doug McGee. He's a bartender at the Suds and Spuds. We hit it off, so I met him as he closed the joint. We went to an all-night diner for a coffee and a Danish. And some good talk, too. He's a fascinating fellow, actually. He used to serve both John Gotti AND Joey Buttafuoco. He's got his picture with them on the wall. Regis Philbin, too."

"Martha, I hate to say this," Beckett said, "but he sounds like a pretty shady character. That's not exactly a roll call of upstanding citizens."

"Oh, relax, Kate, Regis is harmless. And Doug's record is clean."

"And I suppose he told you that?" Castle said.

"No, as a matter of fact. Alexis told me. She's become quite the accomplished investigator, Rick. You should seriously think about hiring her full-time."

"Hire her? She checked out your boyfriend and didn't even tell me. I'm not going to hire her, I'm going to disown her."

"Boyfriend? Who said anything about a boyfriend? We had coffee and an artery-clogging dessert. He's more likely to take me in for an angioplasty than take me as his fifth wife."

"His _fifth_ wife?"

Martha didn't respond. Beckett turned to Castle and said "maybe _I_ should check him out, Rick."

"Good idea. We're going to need fingerprints and DNA, if possible. And make sure to check his credit score, too. I don't want some gold digging gigolo scamming my mother. Hey, mom, did he...?"

Martha was gone.

"Come on, Castle, let's go to bed," Beckett said. "We'll talk about it in the morning."

"Doug McGee, Doug McGee!" screeched Rich Little.

Castle covered his ears with his hands. "Well, I guess there's no chance we'll forget the guy's name."

* * *

 _October 31, 1998_

They were in Central Park on Halloween, and even thought it was late morning, the park was rapidly filling with an assortment of characters even more bizarre than the usual cross-dressers, stoners and softball players. Marilyn held Socrates Van Gogh on a leash.

"Attack!" she shouted, pointing at the figure running toward her in catcher's gear and brandishing a stick over his head.

The dog tilted his head at her in the universal symbol of doggie confusion. Marilyn turned him around. By now, Jason was hovering right in front of them and swinging the stick menacingly. SVG wagged his tail and sounded two happy, staccato barks.

"He knows it's me," Jason said as he removed the Donald Trump Halloween mask. "He probably picked up my scent."

"Must be" Marilyn said. "If that mask doesn't scare him, nothing will. Or maybe you're just so lovable that a sweet dog like Socrates Van Gogh won't even think of attacking you."

SVG barked again. "He knows what you're saying," Jason laughed. "But we still have to figure out some way to get him to recognize danger."

Marilyn dove into her purse and extracted a few dollars. "There's a kid over there in a Frankenstein costume. Maybe we can bribe him to pretend to attack me."

"And what if Socrates Van Gogh really _does_ defend you? The kid would get hurt, you'd be in big trouble and your mom would be sued."

"Yeah. This sucks. And the worst part is, I don't _want_ him to attack anyone, so I hate trying to dream up a plan to get him to do it."

"What about your dad? You'd want him to attack your dad, right?"

"No, not even my dad. Besides, I can't believe dad would ever hurt me. But he did hurt my mom and she didn't want to take any chances so that's why we moved. Now that he's getting out of jail, mom had to give him our new address. She has a restraining order on him and he has to know which address to stay away from. None of it makes any sense."

She picked up a tennis ball and tossed it in frustration. SVG dashed after it and brought it back without being prompted. By this time, a few children had gathered around Socrates Van Gogh and were petting him.

"He makes friends so easily," Jason said.

"See what I mean? He's the sweetest dog in the world. He wouldn't hurt a soul."


	12. Chapter 12

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Twelve_

 _Dance Me To The End Of Love_

" _When you meet the one who changes the way your heart beats, dance with them to that rhythm for as long as the song lasts."_ —Kirk Diedrich

"Dance with me, Castle," Beckett said out of the blue. She paused the television and stared at him. Castle, inexplicably nervous, suddenly became aware of all the little noises that could drive a person insane. The swinging of the pendulum in the grandfather clock. The hum of the refrigerator. His own heartbeat.

He wasn't exactly afraid, but he had never been to so much as a prom in high school, and his trepidation stemmed from unfamiliarity. In hindsight, if he had gone to dances in school and not the Friday night gatherings of the _Edgewyck Academy Dungeons and Dragons Society_ , he would not be sweating through his socks now.

 _Maybe I can stall her_ , he thought, _and hit mother up for lessons. I could take Beckett somewhere elegant_ ― _does Roseland still exist?_ ― _with an orchestra and a polished dance floor, and flapper cigarette girls walking by selling Lucky Strikes for 20 cents a pack. Anything but an iPod playing Taylor Swift._ He was thinking how to make it happen when Beckett rapped her knuckles on top of his head in her best imitation of Biff from _Back To The Future_.

"Hello, hello?" she bellowed, "anybody home?"

Castle snapped back to reality. "Dance?" he asked with a miserable look on his face. "You mean right now?"

"I wasn't trying to finagle a date for New Year's Eve, Castle. Yes, now."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Nothing special. I just thought you might like to hold me close while we gyrate to some romantic music. It's not like I wanted to turn your home into a mosh pit and crank up some _Front 242._ "

"I don't understand a word you just said. But you should know, Kate, I am no Maksim Chmerkovskiy."

"Neither are most men. I'd never hold that against you."

"Oh, it's worse than that. I'm so inept that I'd have caused the staff at Arthur Murray's to quit in frustration. Chubby Checker would disown _The Twist_ because there was finally someone who could not master it. _American Bandstand_ would be forced off the air for letting me on camera. _Soul Train_ would call in an exorcist because I had no soul."

"I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."

"What about I make you a counter offer?"

"Oh, good, we're negotiating. How romantic."

Castle ignored her. "Can we simply put this off for a few weeks? I'll get my ducks in a row, dance-wise, buy you an elegant gown and we'll hit the town in style. First, dinner at Jean–Georges and then we'll dance the night away. And we'll do it once a week and I'll continue to improve and I won't make a fool of myself at our wedding. What do you say?"

"I say you're making far too big a deal of this, Rick. I'm not expecting us to be Fred and Ginger, so I'll just put on some Leonard Cohen and you can hold me close and we'll just wobble around the room for a while _._ You can wobble, can't you?"

"Oh, I'm a regular Weeble. And that _does_ sound kind of sexy."

"You bet your ass. And who knows? You might get lucky."

She fixed him with a stare that had his heart pounding, sending blood to its inevitable destination. He gulped and pulled at his shirt collar while beads of sweat began to form on his forehead.

"I'll be right back," she purred.

"Huh?" he gasped, panting a little.

"I'm just going to grab some music and change into something a little more comfortable. I'll only be a minute." She grabbed something from the closet and disappeared into the bathroom. Castle covered his face with his hands and hyperventilated a bit.

And then, standing ten feet away, was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. And she looked for all the world as though she might like to dance...

* * *

 _December 11, 1999_

"Well, well, don't _you_ look dapper," Max Tompkins said. He was sitting on the bed as Jason entered his room in his Sunday best.

"Thanks, dad," Jason said, assuming _dapper_ was a compliment. He closed the door and sized himself up in the mirror. He ran his fingers through his hair a few times to make sure every strand was in place, moved a few just so and stepped back proudly.

Max chucked Jason under the chin. "Your first dance," he said proudly. "I remember mine. It was in '71. I was thirteen, just like you, and I had never danced before."

"I've danced. And I was willing to go to the seventh-grade dances last year, but Marilyn was still a little shy."

"Then you're already one up on your old man, because I was terrified. And I didn't have a date, like you. No one did. I guess times were different back then. I remember there was a really bad Beatles cover band playing."

 _Beetles?_ Jason thought.

"It took about four songs before anyone got up the courage to step out on the dance floor, and even then, it was only one couple. I waited for three more songs and then I asked Jenny Farmer to dance. It was really fun. I danced with about ten girls that night. It's the first time I ever really felt like an adult."

"Well I'm only going to dance with Marilyn. She's my date, even though we're going to meet at the school."

"I wanted to talk to you about that, son. You've been friends with her for what, three years?"

"Yeah, about that."

"Remember, your mother and I trust you to treat Marilyn with respect. You _have_ treated her with respect, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't...put your hands where they don't belong or anything, right?" He had grown pale, hoping he didn't need to continue to other, more carnal areas.

"What? No, of course not. We hold hands, and we hug sometimes, and done some light kissing, but nothing else."

"OK. Good."

Jason turned to go, but Max put out his hand and stopped him. "There's one more thing, Jason." He patted the mattress next to him and Jason sat down.

"This is your first relationship and it's very important to you. Your mother and I get it. But we don't want you to get too hung up on Marilyn. Because trust me, there will be other girls. And you shouldn't miss out on being a boy by being in too much of a hurry to be a man."

"Other girls?" Jason sounded genuinely confused. "Mom gave me this lecture before school started, dad. I don't need it again."

"Just hear me out. You'll be in high school next year, and that's when everything changes. You'll have more friends, go to parties, dances, football games. And you'll meet lots of girls who will be happy to date you."

"I can do all those things with Marilyn, dad. We agreed that even though we'll be going to different high schools, we'll still be together. We don't need anyone else. Not if we have each other."

"But you don't have to pin yourself down to one course of action, son. After all, you don't want to miss out on meeting the right girl because of a flame you started when you were nine and you can't put out. If I had done that, you would never have been born. I dated more than twenty women before I met your mom. And when I asked her to marry me, it was because I knew she was the one. I knew because I had dated other women and found out they _weren't_ the one."

"So mom is the one? She's perfect for you?"

"We're perfect for each other, Jason. That's how you start a family."

"Then let me ask you this: what if you had met her first?"

* * *

"Ready yet?" Sandra asked through Marilyn's bedroom door. For an answer, she heard the door slowly open.

"How do I look?" Marilyn asked. She wore a simple, sleeveless blue dress, pleated, that ended just above her knees. Sandra wiped away a tear.

"None of that, mom. It's just a dance. I'm not getting married, you know."

"A dance, yes, but it's also a rite of passage. Here, let me do your hair."

Marilyn sat on the end of her bed facing away from her mother. Sandra began brushing Marilyn's hair almost absentmindedly as she searched for the right words.

"I'm sorry there's so much sadness in your life, Marilyn. I never wanted that for you." She said it slowly and sorrowfully.

"I know you didn't, mom. And it's not as bad as it used to be. The kids at school used to tease me something awful because I cried so much. But then I met Jason, and now I'm never alone anymore. Besides, it's not your fault, it's dad's. Sometimes...I hate him."

"He's sick, Marilyn. Alcoholism is a disease, and he needs help. Detective Montgomery promised to get him into a rehabilitation program when he gets out of jail, so he can learn to stop drinking for good. And your dad told me that he's going to try really hard. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that I'm sure it will all work out, but if he lives up to his word and remembers what's at stake...well, things might get better. We have to hope for the best. We have to have faith."

She finished brushing Marilyn's hair and stood up. "Do you understand?"

Marilyn nodded. "I understand. I'm not sure I can do it, but I understand."

"I put this here so I wouldn't forget," Sandra said as she picked up a Polaroid camera on the dresser.

"Now," she said after taking two snapshots, "let me walk you to the bus."

* * *

Beckett emerged in a diaphanous gown, a rosy gold hue as precious as sunset on the last night of Daylight Saving Time. It clung to her in all the right places and would surely swirl around her legs were she to be twirled.

" _That's_ more comfortable than jeans and a sweatshirt?" Castle asked.

"No. But it's what I want to wear when I dance with you, Rick."

She put a CD in the stereo and pressed 'play.' The music was slow and sultry, piano and synth, then violins, bass, accordion and drums. Castle moved in close, taking hold of Beckett's right hand with his left and putting his right hand against the small of her back. She placed her left hand on his shoulder and cooed when he pushed his chest against hers, causing little gasps to escape from her, proper and ladylike.

 _Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin,_

 _Dance me to the panic till I'm gathered safely in._

 _Lift me like an olive branch, be my homeward dove,_

 _And dance me to the end of love._

 _Yeah, dance me to the end of love._

Beckett breathed softly against Castle's neck and he realized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled, discreetly, then breathed in, gathering her scent and using it to spur him onward.

 _Did he just smell me?_ she wondered, though she knew he had. Her own breathing became shallower, quicker and more intense as their thighs met and did a dance of their own.

 _Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone,_

 _Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon._

 _Show me slowly what I only know the limits of,_

 _And dance me to the end of love._

 _Dance me to the end of love._

He slid his cheek against hers, moving his head back until they were face-to-face. He nuzzled against her lips for a few seconds, then pulled back. Beckett's eyes were closed, but she sensed his gaze and opened them and Castle gasped in astonishment.

 _Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on._

 _Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long._

 _We're both of us beneath our love, both of us above._

 _And dance me to the end of love._

 _Yeah, dance me to the end of love._

She held him tighter, pulled him closer, placed her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat―slow, strong, steady.

 _Dance me to the children who are waiting to be born,_

 _Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn._

 _Raise a tent of shelter now though every thread is torn._

 _And dance me to the end of love._

He kissed her, and they continued to wobble for a few more seconds before they stopped and fell backwards onto the bed.

 _Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin,_

 _Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in._

 _Touch me with your naked hand, touch me with your glove._

 _Dance me to the end of love._

 _Dance me to the end of love._

 _Dance me to the end of love._

* * *

"You look beautiful," Jason said. He smiled when Marilyn blushed and waited a few seconds for her to look at the floor, then look up and smile back. He took her hand and led her into the gym. It was already packed with students. A couple of people were on the stage, dragging wires behind equipment and testing the lights. Marilyn and Jason handed over their permission slips and headed straight for the opposite wall.

"Are you going to leave me and go hang with the other guys?" Marilyn asked, pointing at the group of boys clumped together like lemmings against the opposite wall. "They look like they're afraid of girls."

"Nope. I'm here with you and I'm going to stay with you."

Marilyn beamed, but drew back when Jason leaned in to kiss her. He took the hint with a scowl, but laughed it off. They talked for a bit, ignoring the other students much as they did in school. After a while, they heard the screech of a microphone and saw that the principal had taken the stage.

"Welcome, students, to the Christmas dance. You know me...your principal, Angela Li. Please keep in mind that there will be chaperons milling about, and they have been instructed by me to enforce the rules about necking and dancing too close." She shuddered at the laughs that swept across the gym, but plodded on. "Now there's plenty of fruit punch and cookies, so have at it. And don't forget the most important rule...have fun! Now, please welcome, direct from the 80's"―she paused and cleared her throat, but was unable to remove the look of disgust from her face―"The Pit Stains!"

Ms. Li hurried off the stage shaking her head. The band launched into _Like A Virgin_ and Li covered her eyes with her hand and bumped into some students, the wall and the fruit punch table.

"Let's hold off for the next song, shall we?" Marilyn suggested.

"Yeah, this one hits a little too close to home," Jason agreed, looking around the gym. Across the floor the boys had formed into a sort of rugby scrum where they immediately proceeded to pitch pennies. It was less than a minute before Mr. Torgeson, the librarian, broke it up. With the first bust of the night under wraps, they then moved on to betting on who the Jets would face in the playoffs.

The song ended. "Why don't we wait for something slow?" Jason said, grimacing as the band struggled to lend _Come On, Eileen_ the seriousness it deserved. Marilyn nodded.

The violinist tore into a solo that stressed the sound system to its limits. The teachers were in a pile near the door, surreptitiously smoking and whining about their union dues. And the boys remained locked in battle-ready formation. Finally, Eddie Grove spoke up.

"Who's going to be the first one to ask a girl to dance?" he asked.

"I'll do it," Joe Smothers said. "I'm going to ask Susan Mallard when this stupid song is over."

"Too late, Joe," Eddie said. "Looks like Jason Tompkins beat you to it."

 _Under the Milky Way._ Lords of the New Church. One of the definitive 80's ballads.

"I love this song," Jason said.

"Mmm hmm," Marilyn purred in reply.

The first thing Jason noticed was how soft Marilyn's hands were. He honestly had never felt anything like them, and he wondered why he had never noticed it before. Her fingers embraced his, and he felt a strange and wonderful sensation in each digit; a tingling that raced through his veins and spread throughout his body. He pulled her closer and tried to listen to the music to nail down the rhythm and be a good lead. He breathed in deeply but discreetly, inhaling Marilyn's very essence, he thought, to mingle with his own. Her fragrance overwhelmed him though, and he felt flush. For an instant their cheeks touched, and Jason's flesh quivered and grew warm. He put his hands on the small of her back, and he could feel her skin react as it pulsated beneath his touch. He finally gazed into her eyes, and their color altered with her movement. One moment they were the most intense emerald color imaginable, and then he blinked and her eyes shimmered and sparkled in response and a deep blue emerged, growing more intense with each passing second until he realized they had transformed themselves to violet, and he gasped in astonishment and delight. Marilyn saw this and her smile radiated so much joy, so much contentment and so much warmth that it gave Jason a confidence he had never felt before. Marilyn was gliding over the dance floor along with him, and she felt both solid and light as a feather in his arms. The music was perfect, he realized, and he was picking up the tempo subconsciously and leading her gently to places he had never been, both on the dance floor and in his own heart.

Marilyn took hold of Jason's left hand and felt him slip his right hand to the small of her back. The force of his grip was perfect; strong but not overwhelming, and his touch on her spine sent a little shiver into her. "Did he just smell me?" she wondered, and the thought brought a smile to her face. Her misgivings about her father vanished; she wasn't afraid anymore―she couldn't be, not the way Jason held her and drove away all her fears, or the way his motion, swift and strong, conveyed to her the feeling of security she had been seeking. Her breathing quickened, and her pulse began racing as the song played on. Jason continued to sweep her along to the tempo, and she sensed a confidence in him that was never there before. And she gathered her own confidence from him (he had plenty to spare, she decided), and instead of capitulating to his will, she strode along with him, as if to tell him that she sensed what he was doing, and she approved. And she closed her eyes for a moment, and she let the music sway her, and the occasion inspire her, and the boy who embraced her swept her away.

It was their only dance of the night.

"Let's not spoil it," Marilyn pleaded. "It was perfect, and nothing else could live up to it."

"Agreed," Jason said.

They spent the rest of the night talking, holding hands and being in love.

* * *

"How was the dance?" Jason's mother, Karen, asked.

"It was good," Jason said. "Fun. Good night, mom." He kissed her and disappeared.

"I didn't get anything more out of him, Karen," Max said. "He was practically silent all the way home."

"Did you at least tell him about the move to Los Angeles?"

"Nope. I couldn't figure out how to do it," he sighed.


	13. Chapter 13

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Thirteen_

 _Painful Announcements_

" _And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness." —_ Sylvia Plath

 _December 12, 1999_

"No!" Jason shouted. "We're not moving to Los Angeles! We _can't!_ " His face was red with fury and tears began tumbling down his cheeks. He dropped to the floor and said again, softly, "we can't."

Karen put her arms around him. "We know you don't want to go, Jason. But this is a good thing for us. It's a promotion for your father and a chance at a full professorship at UCLA for me. We have to do this for all of us."

"What about me?" Jason cried. "I have a life here, you know. I have friends. I have _Marilyn._ "

"We know you do, and we're sorry that you have to let it go. These kind of things happen sometimes. And trust me, I know what you're going through. Your grandfather was in the Army and we moved like clockwork, every two years. I didn't like it all the time, but it was best for our family then, and I sucked it up, and survived. Now it's _our_ turn to do what's best for _our_ family and we agreed that this is it. We're moving to California. We're leaving on the 31st so we can start the new year there. You're going to have to get used to it, Jason. That's all there is to that."

"I won't even have a chance to finish the school year?" he whimpered.

"No, you won't. I'm sorry."

Karen left him alone in his room, and he had never felt more alone, even in the days before Marilyn when all he wanted was a friend. He fell on the bed and buried his face in his pillow. He cried until he couldn't cry any more. Then he took Marilyn's advice and blacked out his room. He did everything that she told him she did on those tortuous nights―covering the alarm clock, putting a towel on the floor in front of the door, covering the windows with sheets. He put on his headphones, selected a CD, and spent the rest of the night listening to _The Best Of Nat King Cole_ as he fell asleep. And he dreamed, and Marilyn's face, so familiar, so full of kindness and so beautiful, steadily dimmed in his mind until it had entirely faded away and he awoke, bathed in a cold sweat as he called her name in the darkness.

* * *

 _March 27, 1989_

"Richard?" Martha asked, "what's going on?"

She was standing in the living room surrounded by moving boxes. She read the labels on a few― _books, clothes, bathroom_ ―and felt the air leave her lungs all at once. She felt dizzy, and she put her hand on the counter to steady herself.

"Mother, there you are," Castle said. "I was hoping you'd get here before I left." He was smiling and holding a box that said _writing supplies._

"You're moving out? _Today?_ "

"You didn't expect me to stay around here forever, did you? I'm moving on and moving up. I've saved $3,000 from my job and I've submitted two manuscripts this month alone. This is just the beginning for me, mother. The beginning of a great career."

He tried to kiss her, but the box he was holding was in the way, so he dropped it, kissed her on the cheek, picked it up again and hurried out the door. Martha sat down at the dining room table, stunned, and felt her wrist with her fingers. Her pulse was racing and she took a few deep breaths, closed her eyes and twirled her head in a circle.

"Hi, Mrs. Rodgers," said a voice. Martha looked up to see Andy Stepanovich, a friend of Richard's since first grade, picking up one of the remaining boxes. They had been inseparable since they met—Boy Scouts, science fairs, museum trips, movies, even a disastrous double-date to a science-fiction convention on prom night a few weeks prior.

"Hi, Anthony. Good to see you. Thank you for helping Richard move." She barely got the words out.

"Oh, absolutely. He already helped me. We finished about three hours ago."

"He did? You mean you're sharing an apartment?"

"Yeah, in Hell's Kitchen. Rick didn't tell you?"

"Oh," said Martha. "Yes, he did. I guess I just forgot, that's all." She felt a little better knowing that Richard wasn't going to be entirelyalone, but it still felt like she was losing her son. She always knew, of course, that this day would come, but that didn't make it any easier. It had always been another day, somewhere on the horizon, still a long way off. In fact, it was any day but _today._ He hadn't even graduated high school, and now he would be out in the world, fending for himself. _Can he even cook?_ she wondered, and then felt terrible, both that she didn't know and that she had never taught him herself.

It was less than a half-hour later that Anthony exited with the last box. Castle came inside, saw that that all the boxes were gone and faced Martha.

"Well, I guess this is it," he said. "Here's my new address."

He handed her a slip of paper and she put it in her pocket without looking at it.

"Richard," she said with tears in her eyes, "take care of yourself." She wrapped her arms around Castle and hugged him with a strength neither of them knew she had.

"I'll visit a lot, mom," Castle said. "I promise."

He was just about out the door when Martha said "oh, wait! Take this with you, Richard."

She handed him a pink cardboard box with the words _Aki's Bakery_ printed on it in blue. He looked at her and words failed him. He opened the box and wiped his suddenly moist eyes.

"It's your favorite," Martha said. "Chocolate cake, with bananas in the middle and whipped cream frosting. And plenty of frosting roses for you. I know how much you love them."

It said _Happy 18_ _th_ _Birthday, Richard._

Castle went straight to the cupboard and got three plates, which he put on the table. Martha got out the milk and three glasses. A moment later, Anthony appeared and he and Martha sang _Happy Birthday To You_ before Castle blew out eighteen candles. And that night, Castle and Anthony slept on Martha's couches.

* * *

"I wonder what made me think of that?" Martha asked out loud.

"Martha," said Rich Little, and Martha smiled.


	14. Chapter 14

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Fourteen_

 _Christmas_

 _May no gift be too small to give, nor too simple to receive, which is wrapped in thoughtfulness, and tied with love. —_ L.O. Baird

 _December 25, 1999_

Patricia Tompkins stood in front of her son with her hands on her hips trying to look and sound appropriately authoritative and failing.

"Jason, why couldn't you give Marilyn her gift yesterday?" she asked. "Uncle Ed and Aunt Julie and your cousins will be here in less than an hour. I want you to be here to greet them. I'm counting on you."

"But it wasn't Christmas yesterday," Jason replied. "This is the last gift I'm going to give Marilyn in person for I don't know how long, and it has to be _personal_. It has to be _romantic_." He matched her hands on hips posture and stuck out his chin. Patricia, not wanting to draw this out any longer, relented.

"OK, but hurry back. I have no intention of letting dinner get cold while we all wait for you."

Jason kissed her, grabbed Marilyn's gift from under the tree and dashed out the door.

 _The last gift he's going to give to her in person_? Patricia thought. She shook her head.

 _No. It's just puppy love. He'll forget about her in a month. Once we get to L.A. and he meets someone new, he'll forget about her._

 _I hope._

* * *

Central Park on Christmas was nearly deserted. There were a few people milling about, walking their dogs or feeding pigeons, and a couple of homeless people sleeping on benches, but the usual hustle-bustle of the crowds was entirely absent. There was a thin coating of fresh, powdery snow on the ground and a chill wind was blowing. The trees, devoid of leaves, bent with the wind and Marilyn thought of Robert Frost's poem _Birches_.

"Right on time," she said as Jason sat next to her. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas. I brought you a hot chocolate." He handed her a cup and she used it to warm her hands before taking a sip and handing it to Jason, who was wearing a scarf that was so long he had to unwrap it to take a sip himself. Their lips appropriately warm and moistened, they kissed.

"What are you reading?" he asked, the words leaving his mouth in little puffs of condensation.

" _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_. We've been here so many times and every time we come, I stare at that statue of the characters from the book. It finally got the best of my curiosity, so I borrowed the book from the school library. So, let's look at the statue. That's Alice, of course, sitting on the mushroom, and the White Rabbit checking his pocket watch, the Cheshire Cat behind Alice, her own cat in front of her, The Mad Hatter over there and even The Dormouse, though for accuracy, it really should be asleep. Strange, though, that it has the mushrooms and not the caterpillar or his hookah. Maybe the sculptor didn't read the book." She chuckled, and that made Jason laugh, too.

"I can't really stay, sweetheart," Jason said. "We've got company coming over and I promised my mother I'd..."

He stopped. Marilyn was staring at him with a mystifying smile, crooked and playful, and her cheeks were red from the cold.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

" _Sweetheart._ You called me _sweetheart._ You've never called me anything but Marilyn before."

"I haven't?" he frowned. "Well, I should have. You _are_ my sweetheart, after all. Forever."

"And you're mine... _sweetheart_."

They kissed.

"Here," Jason said. He handed her his gift.

"And for you," she replied as she handed him a red envelope. "You go first."

He opened the envelope and read the card. The message was simple and sweet, her handwritten additions more so.

"Now," Marilyn said, "look inside the envelope."

Jason closed his eyes and pulled out two concert tickets. "What?" he shouted. "The Yellowjackets? Are you _serious?_ "

She nodded and he jumped for joy. He took her hands and spun her around in a kind of ecstatic dance, like Natalie Wood in _West Side Story._

"It's for New Year's Eve, Jason. Will you be my date?"

"Of course I will! _Club Nocturne_ is one of my favorite albums ever. I love The Yellowjackets. And I love you."

"I love you, too. Now, my mom is coming, because she'd never let me go to a jazz club without an adult, but you won't even know she's there."

"That's fine. I don't care, as long as _we're_ there, together. Thank you!"

"My turn?" Marilyn didn't want to appear too eager, but failed.

"Sure, go ahead. I wrapped it myself."

She carefully unwrapped the paper—alternating paintings of Santa Claus about to descend another chimney, filling stockings and eating cookies—taking the time to notice the effort that went into it. It was, in fact, a fine if pedestrian job, and she felt an internal pang of joy that Jason would go to the trouble, especially since all his prior gifts were clearly wrapped by the staff at Bloomingdale's. She opened the box and tilted it toward herself and a glimmer of light shone off something made of polished silver. Her heart fluttered and she took it out and held it up.

"A pendant! And it has your name on it. Oh, it's beautiful, Jason. Thank you."

"Before you put it on, tell me something: what does it look like?"

"Kind of like a big comma."

"I thought so, too. But there's more to it than that. A whole other half, that I have right here."

He held out a pendant of his own. "See? Mine has your name on it. And it looks like nothing at all. But when you put them together..."

"A heart!"

"Exactly. We each have half. So the heart isn't complete without both of us, and whenever we're apart, we'll know that I have part of your heart, and you have part of mine."

Marilyn managed to say "this is the most romantic thing you've ever done, sweetheart."

She put her arm around him and sighed. They walked around for a few minutes, her head resting gently on his shoulder. Then Marilyn spied some movement out of the corner of her eye.

"Hey, how much time do you have?" she asked.

Jason looked at his watch. "Not much. Maybe a half-hour. What do you have in mind?"

"Look!" She pointed and he turned around.

"A horse and carriage ride? On Christmas? What a great idea! Let's go."

They made their way to the path and flagged down the coachman.

"After you," Jason said, and he held out his hand. Marilyn grabbed it and climbed aboard and Jason piled in after her. The ride was slow and beautiful and they divided their time between people watching and snuggling.

"I love the park like this," Marilyn said. "Nearly deserted, I mean, and snow on the ground. It makes it so much easier to concentrate on its natural beauty. The trees, the ponds, the grass, the squirrels. Don't you think so?"

"I do," Jason said, and Marilyn's mind drifted as she repeated _I do_ in her head.

Jason tapped his watch. "I wish we had time for some more hot chocolate," he said, "but I really have to go now." Marilyn nodded, but didn't say anything.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Jason said.

"You can stop by if you want. Mom's got a long day at work tomorrow and we can watch some TV."

"I'll be there. Goodbye, sweetheart."


	15. Chapter 15

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Fifteen_

 _That Night...That Awful Night_

 _In every shadow, there is light_

 _In every tear, a smile_

 _In death I know there still is life_

 _That lingers for a while_

—Unknown

 _December 26, 1999_

"Hi, Jason," Sandra said as she answered the door. "Marilyn'll be out in a minute. Got to go, Christmas returns today. Busy, busy!"

Jason scooted out of Sandra's way and came inside. Marilyn appeared a few minutes later to find him watching _Scooby Doo_ on TV, Socrates Van Gogh on his lap. She opened the refrigerator and got out two cans of Dr. Pepper and joined him in the living room. They watched the rest of _Scooby Doo_ , holding their frigid hands until Marilyn began rubbing hers together for warmth. "Here," Jason said, and he offered her his gloves. She put them on; they were leather and fur-lined, soft and warm, and she pulled them as tight as she could. Jason turned off the TV and the lamps and they drank their sodas and stared at the Christmas tree, getting lost in the flashing colored lights and they laughed at how they had to keep moving the popcorn strings higher to keep them from Socrates Van Gogh. They broke for a kiss every few minutes and all seemed right with the world.

The time passed slowly. Jason seemed to be growing increasingly nervous, but Marilyn didn't want to press the matter. It wasn't the first time he had acted this way and the others―their first kiss, say, or when he asked her to meet his parents―had amounted to nothing, so she wasn't worried. _So he has something on his mind_ , she thought. _It doesn't mean anything's the matter._ They microwaved a pizza, had a _Wizard of Oz_ singalong and listened to side one of Miles Davis's _Kind of_ _Blue_ before Jason finally faced Marilyn. He took her hands and she leaned in for a kiss, but he withdrew and shook his head. His grip on her hands tightened, as though he were afraid he might bolt and her pulse quickened a little in a sort of pre-panic response.

"I have to tell you something, Marilyn," he said. "It's...not good."

Marilyn's face turned bright red immediately. "You're breaking up with me?" she said, the tears already forming. She yanked her hands free from his and turned her face away. She felt a searing heat course quickly through her face, and she was having trouble breathing.

"No, never. It's not that, I promise."

He put his arms around her and drew her close. Marilyn was panting, but she took a few deep breaths and looked at Jason again. His face was full of confusion and fear and it troubled her anew.

"Then what is it?" she pleaded.

"I'm moving in a few days," he sighed. "To Los Angeles."

"You're moving? All the way across the country?" She was strangely calm, for a moment, and Jason held out hope that things wouldn't be so bad. But then her face contorted and the floodgates opened.

"You _can't!_ " she shouted, shaking her head. "You can't leave me!"

"I don't have a choice," Jason said. "I argued with my folks for hours, but they won't budge. I hate it, and I hate L.A., but there's nothing I can do about it."

Jason pulled Marilyn's head against his shoulder and held her. He let her convulse in his arms until she tore her hands away and hit him on the chest. There was no force behind it, though, and Jason and rested his cheek on top of her head.

 _I can't even join her in her sadness. I have no tears left._

They stayed that way, time passing unnoticed until they fell asleep in each other's arms.

* * *

Socrates Van Gogh lifted his head at the sound of someone entering the apartment. Marilyn woke up, still clutching Jason as Sandra came in.

"What's going on?" she demanded with her hands on her hips.

"Nothing, mother," Marilyn said. "We just fell asleep, that's all."

"I've got to go," Jason said. He stood up and looked around.

"I think you want these," Marilyn said. She took off the gloves and handed them to him and he hurried out the door.

"You'd better start talking, young lady," Sandra said. "You seem to have betrayed my trust in you."

Marilyn went over the day as best she could, but when she got to the part about Jason moving, she broke down. Sandra realized that nothing sexual had happened. She felt Marilyn's pain, pulled her close and held her. "It'll be OK," she whispered.

There was a loud pounding on the door. Sandra turned around with a start as the door burst open and Marilyn's father barreled in. He was holding a gun and waving it around like it was a conductor's baton.

"Marilyn," Sandra said, but Marilyn was already ushering Socrates Van Gogh into her room. She closed the door, but thought better of it and opened it a crack. Sandra undid the clasp on her purse, but left her hand at her side.

"A restraining order, Sandra?" Eric said. "Did you really think that was going to keep me from getting what I got coming to me?" He cocked his head as though he had forgotten something, then closed the door and engaged the deadbolt.

"Marilyn has a phone in her room," Sandra lied. "She's calling 911 right now. Leave, and I'll tell the police it was a misunderstanding, but if they get here and find you, you'll go back to jail, guaranteed. And this time you won't get out early."

"You want me to go? I'll go. Just tell me where the money is."

"What money? I don't have any money."

"Bullshit! Do you think I'm stupid? You learn things in the joint, like this is a rent-controlled apartment, and _you_ work at Bloomingdale's on commission. I know all about you and I know you're making good money, so you'd better hand some of it over. I supported this family for years, and now I'm a little down on my luck is all." His face softened and he added "don't worry, love. I'll pay you back," as though that would make everything OK.

Sandra wasn't fooled. "I can give you $1,000, Eric. I have my checkbook, right here."

She reached into her purse, took out her gun and pointed it at his head, but he simply laughed and pointed his own gun at her.

"Oh, so this is how it is, huh? You think you got the guts to pull the trigger? Not a chance. Not a chance in hell." He let the gun fall to his side to emphasize his point.

Sandra's hand was trembling. "This is your last chance," she said. "I've been taking lessons. I know how to use this."

"I want the money _now!_ "

Eric kicked the TV, knocking it to the ground, and the sound of broken glass made Marilyn scream. Socrates Van Gogh dashed for the bedroom door, pushing Marilyn out of the way and forcing his way out. He was barking furiously, almost rabidly, until the barks suddenly turned to a loud, stuttering growl and Marilyn realized he had sunk his teeth into her father. She pulled the door shut and listened intently.

"Get him off me!" shouted Eric, "he's vicious!"

A shot rang out, and the wail of a dog in pain. Marilyn sank to the ground and held her hands over her ears. It didn't help; she heard a second shot and a third. The last one was so loud it seemed to burst through her skull and echo inside her head.

There was a sound of movement, like something sliding across the floor, and then just as suddenly it stopped. Marilyn waited another minute before cautiously poking her head out the door. Something moved in the background. She froze, fearing her father was still alive, but it was just her own reflection in the window. She slowly made her way into the living room and stopped.

They were all dead.

There was a faint smell of smoke in the air. On the far side of the living room, lying against the wall was Eric Singletary. His eyes and mouth were open, witnesses to the shock that was his last thought. His gun was still in his right hand. His left hand was lying across his stomach, partially covering a deep red blood stain. Marilyn clamped her hand in front of her mouth to keep from screaming. In front of Eric was Socrates Van Gogh. He was lying atop the broken glass from the TV, his legs gathered in toward his belly. Marilyn had seen him this way many times; she could have sworn he was asleep and she fought the impulse to pet him awake. She stood there, motionless for a couple of minutes, too afraid to turn around and look at her mother.

The silence was shattered by frantic pounding on the door. _It's the police_ , Marilyn thought. _I have to let them in._ She made the mistake of glancing back at her mother's body first, and when the police finally knocked down the door they found her on the floor, her head buried in her hands, crying.

END OF PART ONE


	16. Chapter 16

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter 16_

 _Aftermath_

 _PART TWO_

 _Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise._ —Victor Hugo _, Les Miserables_

 _December 27, 1999_

Good cop, bad cop. Marilyn had seen it on TV so often she was convinced it was entirely the product of some writer's imagination, so she never thought it might be an actual police technique, let alone one that would be used on her. But as question after question piled up the realization that the detectives were doing just that surprised her so much that a small laugh escaped her before she knew it.

"Something funny?" bad cop asked with a bulldog-like snarl. He was a balding, heavy-set man with dark eyes, a salt-and-pepper mustache, a checkerboard short-sleeved shirt and mustard stains on his paisley tie that made it not only garish, but disgusting. He stood there with his hands on his hips as though Marilyn had been dragged into the station covered in blood. The corners of his mouth turned down with disapproval—at what, Marilyn couldn't fathom.

She shook her head. She had been concentrating on the goings-on in the squad room—officers milling about, the clacking of typewriters ( _can't the city afford computers?_ ), phones ringing every minute or so, snatches of conversations ("got a minute, officer Beckett?")—anything to keep her mind off the murders. But bad cop's brusque attitude had its effect, and the smile disappeared from her face instantly.

"Am I a suspect?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly.

"Should you be?" bad cop replied.

Now it was good cop's turn. "No, you're not a suspect—at this time," he said before Marilyn could answer. "We're just trying to understand what happened, that's all." He was clean-shaven, tall, wearing a long-sleeved solid blue shirt with a burgundy-colored club tie and his tone had exactly the same fake sincerity to it since they had started several hours earlier.

 _At least he's consistent_ , Marilyn thought.

Good cop smiled and sat down across from her, exchanging a quick glance with bad cop, but Marilyn had ceased caring what they were up to. She glanced at the clock; it was 2:15 AM.

 _I've been_ _an orphan_ _for only 6 hours, but it feels like forever_. But grief gave way to exhaustion and she yawned and dabbed at her eyes.

"Do you drink coffee?" good cop asked, "or are you too young for that?" His smile was as fake as his tone.

She shook her head again. "Listen, I've told you guys at least four times what happened. I've held nothing back. Now it's been a long night and I just want to go to sleep." She yawned again, hoping the detectives didn't think she had faked it for effect, even though she had.

"We want to get your memories while they're still fresh," bad cop said. "You might just fall asleep and when you wake up, suddenly your memory is a little fuzzy. Your story changes a bit, details go missing and that wouldn't be good for anybody."

"My story? Don't you mean 'the facts?'"

"We _hope_ they're facts. But if we wait too long...well, even a little time can play tricks on you. You could forget things―important things that will help us piece together what happened."

"You just said that. And you think I'd forget overnight? I'm not a child, you know."

Bad cop grimaced and ran his hand over the bald path running through the middle of his skull. Marilyn's fear turned to annoyance as she grew more exasperated. She had never been awake this late, and every fiber of her body longed for sleep. She decided to show her disapproval by pointedly glancing around the squad in an exaggerated motion.

"Looking for something?" bad cop asked.

"The donuts," Marilyn said. "Your routine is so cliché that I figured you must have donuts around here somewhere."

Bad cop's face turned red with annoyance. "Watch your mouth!" he snapped.

"We could get you some donuts," good cop said. "There's a Dunkin' just down the street. It's open twenty-four hours." He did a half-turn and pointed with his thumb like he was about to start taking orders.

"Fellas?" came a familiar voice from behind Marilyn. The detectives, looked up, glanced at Marilyn and left. Marilyn heard the voice say "powder residue on both DOA's hands, none on Marilyn's. Looks like they shot each other, just like she said. Time to call it a night and get this girl to her relatives' house."

The detectives came back and sat down.

"Was that Captain Montgomery?" Marilyn asked. "He investigated when my dad beat my mom up last year."

"It was," said good cop, "and he said that we know what happened so you don't have to answer any more questions right now. So we're going to have Social Services drive you to your uncle Boyd's house, OK? He's waiting there for you with your aunt."

Marilyn nodded and in the same motion, she put her arms on the table and her head on her arms and she quickly fell asleep.

* * *

She dreamed, and in her dream she was floating through fog, like an airplane making its way through clouds. Faint sounds began to emerge—TV, laughter, Jason's voice. The soft moans of kissing. Another sound was there, too; something so faint that she strained to hear it. She stopped moving forward but kept floating, like a bobber on a fishing line, and she shut her eyes in concentration. Then the sound repeated, a bit louder than before.

A barking dog.

 _Socrates Van Gogh! He's alive!_

The fog dissipated and she was standing in the apartment again, watching her dad shout at her mother in slow motion. Her father's eyes grew wide with fear and his mouth popped open. Marilyn glanced down and to her left. Socrates Van Gogh came charging past her, and he leaped into the air, sinking his teeth into her father's left arm.

"Get him off me, he's vicious!" her father shouted. With his right hand, he pointed the gun at Socrates Van Gogh and squeezed the trigger. The dog fell to the ground with a wail, blood dripping from his mouth. Her father turned his head, and so did Marilyn. Her mother was holding her gun in front of her, and the sound of a bullet tore at Marilyn's eardrums. But it was her father who shot first, and somehow, as she was falling, her mother got off a shot too. Her father fell first; her mother, fighting with every ounce of her strength, followed a moment later.

She looked up and saw her reflection in the window next to her father and...

"Marilyn!"

She snapped open her eyes and lifted her head so violently she nearly fell out of her chair. There was a man standing over her, the finger he had used to prod her awake still pointed menacingly at her shoulder. He drew back in alarm.

"I'm sorry to wake you," he said, "but it's time to leave. I'm here to take you to your aunt and uncle's home."

Marilyn looked at him quizzically and he took her cue.

"I'm Robert, the social worker," he said. "Now let's get you out of here."

* * *

It was 3 AM and Marilyn was wide awake, listening to the drone of tires against asphalt. She was sitting in an indistinct Chevrolet sedan with bad shock absorbers which exaggerated every bump and pothole in the New Jersey turnpike. Robert had given her a grey woolen blanket back at the police station, and she drew it tightly around herself and stared dully out the window, trying her best to stop crying. She looked back at the lights of New York and a chill spread over her entire body, then seemed to seep through her skin and penetrate all the way to her bones.

"Can you turn on the heater?" she asked through chattering teeth.

"Sorry, but it's broken," Robert said. "Budget cuts too, so we can't afford to get it fixed." He said it matter-of-factly, with neither shame nor apology in his voice. The car rolled along until they hit a bump so hard that Marilyn would have smacked her head on the roof had she not been wearing her seat belt.

"Can't afford new shocks either. Not this year, anyway."

They were headed to Nutley, New Jersey, a distance of only about fifteen miles, but it seemed like she had been trapped in that blasted Chevy for more than an hour. She couldn't see anything in the dark, New York was already a fading memory, Nutley was a small town that only took her farther away from Jason in the short time they had left, and to top it off, Robert was boring.

"I'm not really a football fan," she said, trying to stop him from rhapsodizing about the Rangers.

"Ice hockey," Robert corrected her. "Best sport in the world."

"Like I care," Marilyn muttered.

Her aunt and uncle, Katherine and Boyd Jenkins, were waiting for her. She hadn't seen them in the two years since an ugly Easter dinner confrontation in New York when a drunk Eric stumbled into the apartment and passed out on the floor. As per most states, New Jersey would normally want Marilyn to live with her grandparents, but three of them had passed away and the fourth, her paternal grandmother, lived in Phoenix on a fixed income and was 74 years old and living in a hospice with advanced pancreatic cancer. Katherine was her mother's sister, and Marilyn heard her crying on the phone when good cop explained what had happened. Marilyn always liked her aunt, and hearing her cry made Marilyn weep anew and she heard Robert sigh.

 _Not a very sensitive soul_ , she thought.

The car lumbered along, wheezing like Jack Benny's old Maxwell. Robert was humming, and Marilyn let her head slide to the right where it bopped against the window.

"Can I give you a piece of advice?" Robert said. "Don't fight it—just grieve."

He was chewing gum and making a smacking sound which Marilyn found exceptionally annoying, especially when he spoke. She decided to ignore him and concentrate on her dream. She had been in her bedroom during the shootings; why was she in the living room in the dream? What was it trying to tell her? Would she dream it again? And what about her reflection? She didn't remember seeing that at the time. Could she be blocking it out?

The car stopped. "We're here," Robert said. Marilyn slowly got out of the car. The porch light was on, and as Marilyn came up the steps, the door squeaked open. Uncle Boyd opened the screen door and Marilyn and Robert stepped inside.

"Marilyn," Boyd said, "I'm so sorry. I don't know what else to say."

He hugged her and she did her best to hug him back. "Where's aunt Katherine?" she asked.

"In the bedroom. She's pretty torn up, Marilyn."

"Mr. Jenkins?" Robert said, "is it OK if I stop by in the afternoon with an Essex County social worker? Say 3 PM? There's a few things we need to go over."

"Fine," Boyd said. "We'll be available."

Robert put his hand on Marilyn's shoulder, squeezed it, then left. Boyd ushered Marilyn into his bedroom where Katherine was sitting on the edge of the bed, a handkerchief to her face. Marilyn could hear her softly sobbing and she shuffled her feet on the carpet. Katherine looked up and swept Marilyn into her arms. They cried together for a few minutes before Marilyn pulled herself away.

"I'm sorry but you'll have to sleep on the sofa tonight," Boyd said. "Tomorrow we'll buy you a proper bed and move the office equipment into the garage."

Marilyn nodded. Ten minutes later, she was asleep.

* * *

 _December 28, 1999_

It was light when Marilyn woke and the first thing she noticed was that she was not home. She sat up for a moment, taking in the room. The furniture was old, the carpet was worn flat and the wallpaper, a green and white plant motif from the 70's was peeling at the corners and faded where the sun hit it in the afternoon. On the end table next to the sofa was a picture of uncle Boyd in his police uniform at his retirement reception from the NYPD, surrounded by smiling cops. More pictures resided on the mantle—Katherine and Boyd's wedding, the two of them in Hawaii and Katherine and Sandra, arms around each other, smiling. For a moment, it seemed as though she was just spending the night at her uncle and aunt's house, and she half expected her mother would appear, ready to take her upstate for Thanksgiving again. But as she continued to absorb the room—the tiny, black-and-white TV, the velvet paintings of roses and irises, the cuckoo clock—the sum of it all pushed her mind back to reality, hitting her like an anvil dropped on her head and she buried her face in her pillow and started to cry. A moment later, she felt a hand on her back and she turned over and smiled through her tears at her aunt. Katherine looked ten years older than Marilyn remembered and her eyes were red from crying and exhaustion.

 _I wonder if she got any sleep_ , Marilyn thought.

"Marilyn," Katherine said, "take your time and do what you have to do. When you're ready, we'll make breakfast. Bacon and eggs—how does that sound?"

It sounded fine, though Marilyn really had no appetite. She sat up and looked around again. The TV was tiny and had rabbit ears for an antenna—no cable. _I'll bet they don't even have AOL_ , she sighed. It was more of a general criticism about their age than anything else as Marilyn did not have a computer. She took a shower, gargled (she didn't have a toothbrush, and Katherine and Boyd had no spares), and brushed her hair.

"Can I help?" she asked as Katherine was putting bacon in a skillet.

"You can set the table if you want," Katherine said. "Plates are in this cabinet." She pointed with a pair of tongs.

Breakfast was a somber affair. Marilyn ate half her scrambled eggs and a single slice of bacon, ignoring the dry wheat toast.

"It's supposed to rain again today," Boyd said.

"Uh huh," said Katherine. Marilyn bobbed her head, but said nothing. Katherine stole a look at Boyd and he nodded.

"Marilyn," he said, "I called some of my old contacts on the force. They told me your apartment is still a crime scene, but they'd be able to go in and get some things you need. You know, clothes, schoolbooks, that sort of thing."

"OK," Marilyn said stoically. "I guess that's a good idea."

The rest of the meal passed silently.

"Sorry we're late," Robert said as he entered the house. I don't know this part of New Jersey very well."

He had brought the New Jersey social worker, a tall brunette woman with a woolen pullover sweater, blue jeans and three or four bracelets on her left wrist. She followed Boyd and Robert into the living room.

"I'm Judith Allen," she said as she shook everyone's hand. "And you must be Marilyn."

"Yep," was all Marilyn said.

"I'll be taking over your case from Robert. It'll be a smooth transition, though. I've done these plenty of times."

She said it with a warm smile, and however much Marilyn wanted to deny it, she did feel a bit better. Judith looked around and said "well, why don't we get started?" She had a seat opposite Marilyn and shook her head to move her hair out of her eyes.

"We've already gotten Marilyn a bed and a toothbrush and some...other basics," Katherine said, feeling a bit too self-conscious to say the word _underwear._

"That's fine. I see that Marilyn will be staying here long-term, then."

"Yes," Boyd said. "Better here with us than with a foster family." Marilyn sighed, Katherine shot him a glance and Boyd wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

"Is there anything else you need from your house, Marilyn?"

"That's being handled," Boyd said quickly.

"Terrific. Now, school starts up on January 3rd, but why don't we give you that week off and let you start on January 10th instead?" Marilyn nodded. She wasn't in a talking mood.

"I've already sent for your records, and I'll make sure they get transferred to the Nutley school district. Now, Marilyn, you've been through quite a traumatic experience. You'll need support from your family, but professional help, too. We recommend that you start seeing a therapist to help you deal with the grief. Essex County Social Services will help you with the cost if you qualify."

"I think that's a very good idea," Katherine said and she put her arm around Marilyn's shoulders.

* * *

 _Friday, December 31, 1999_

Marilyn awoke without crying for the first time since the murders. Her emotions had been torn every which way—a grueling, painful and sometimes humiliating battle, and the exhaustion it caused stretched her nerves until they frayed. Her reaction was to shut out the memories by forcing herself to think about other things and the pain finally resolved itself into numbness of body and indifference of mind. Her mouth was dry, her muscles ached and her head was pulsating at a single point, as though it had been hit by a bullet that ricocheted off her skull. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep; she rubbed them with her palms and looked at them in the mirror and when she saw how bloodshot they were, she gasped.

 _I'm falling apart_ , she thought.

She opened the blinds and frowned at the sight of another gloomy overcast day. The wind was blowing hard and the branches of the tree outside her window tapped and scratched against the glass. She hardly expected anything else in winter, but she was holding out hope that since Katherine was essentially forcing her to go her mother's funeral, she might at least get to go on a sunny day. It was going to be dreadfully sad under the best of circumstances, but if she had to stand at her mother's grave holding an umbrella and shivering, well, that would make it worse. _Or,_ she thought, _maybe it would simply be appropriate_ _—_ _a kind of final insult in this bullshit I call a life_.

"It's always overcast on Good Friday," her mother used to say, even if the weather was perfectly sunny. It was only now that Marilyn understood that it had nothing to do with the weather.

There was a knock at the door. "Are you awake?" Katherine asked.

"Yeah," Marilyn said, and the door squeaked open. Katherine was already wearing a plain black dress and black shoes. Her eyes were red and glassy—so much so that Marilyn could see them behind the veil of the black pillbox hat she wore. Marilyn checked her watch. The funeral wasn't for three hours.

"Is there anything you want to talk about, Marilyn?" Katherine asked. Her voice, soft and sad, was somehow lyrical, like she was singing _Vissi d'arte_. Marilyn wondered how she managed to put aside her grief like that. _Somewhere in this tragedy she was able to become someone beautiful. Someone willing to lay aside her own pain to help me; to take over the role of mother in my life. Or maybe she was like that all along and I just never noticed._

"I just want this day to be over with," Marilyn said. Though she wanted to talk to Katherine and ask her a million questions about her mother, this wasn't the time—she would be living here for years.

"OK. Well, you'd better get showered and dressed. We're going to leave in half an hour. We'll stop for breakfast and we'll pick up some flowers on the way to church."

Katherine turned around and was nearly out the door when Marilyn said "will that help?"

"Will what help?"

"Going to church. Having a service for mom."

 _For a murderer._

"Of course it will, dear. It's a reminder that your mother is with God now, and how we have to live a good life so that when it's our time, we can share the same destiny."

Marilyn nodded her head and smiled and Katherine left her alone.

 _Destiny,_ Marilyn thought derisively. _It isn't something you can plan; it just happens. That's what makes it destiny._

She stood up and slowly walked to the car.

 _What a way to end the century_ , she thought.


	17. Chapter 17

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Seventeen_

 _Separation Anxiety_

 _How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard._ —A.A. Milne, _Winnie-the-Pooh_

 _December 29, 1999_

"I don't have too long," Jason said. "I'm at a pay phone. My parents don't want me talking to you after what happened. It was all over the news and they're embarrassed. They think their friends would think less of them or something. We're going to leave New York and they're still worried about the social standing, the creeps."

"I got your email," Marilyn said. "Thank you. It was sweet."

"I really am so sorry for what happened. I wasn't sure how to say it, though."

"It turns out 'I'm sorry' was just right." She smiled, then frowned when she remembered that Jason couldn't see her.

"How's life at your uncle and aunt's house? Are they treating you OK?"

"It sucks. They're nice, of course, but I miss my mom. And I miss you. And Socrates Van Gogh." Marilyn didn't mention her dad, and Jason decided not to ask. "And," Marilyn continued, "you called at just the right moment. It's the first time I've been able to stop crying for more than an hour since that night."

"What about school?"

"I start back next week here in New Jersey. The detective told me there won't be a trial, so that's not an issue."

"That's good. I won't be at school, though. My parents decided we should move out to L.A. pretty soon."

Jason could hear Marilyn sobbing. "Marilyn?" he pleaded. "Sweetheart?"

"Have a safe trip," she said as she hung up.

* * *

 _Thursday, December 30, 1999_

Marilyn was at the library when she decided to check her email. There was, as she suspected, an email from Jason. She hesitated, reasoning that she had already said her good-bye, but she opened it nonetheless.

 _Marilyn—we leave on Friday morning. I'll have to spend most of the day with my parents, but I'll be at The Oreo Tree tomorrow at four, waiting for you. If you don't show up, I'll understand. But please come and see me. Get your uncle to bring you, or just come on the bus. I want to say good-bye in person. I think that way we can make the best out of a shitty situation. If you don't make it, look for another email from me on Saturday night after I've had a chance to unpack and get set up in L.A._

It was dated December 29. _He must have written it right after we got off the phone_ , Marilyn thought. A sudden pang of regret began welling up in her at the thought of missing Jason; she imagined him at the Oreo tree by himself and she felt a pain in her stomach and nearly doubled over. She glanced at her watch and said "holy shit!"

"Language," said a librarian at her elbow. "And shhh!"

Marilyn dashed to a pay phone and quickly called Katherine.

"I _have_ to be there," she said. "I can't let Jason leave without saying good-bye."

Katherine grabbed her purse. "I'll pick you up at the library," she said.

* * *

"You are _not_ going to be late, Meredith!" Castle shouted into the phone. "Alexis is counting on you! Do you know how crushed she'll be if her own mother isn't at her violin recital?"

"I can't help it, Rick," Meredith said. "I'm still at customs They seem to think my little bottle of Chateau Laffite Rothschild is a no-no, like I'm Carlos the Jackal or something. They're brainless, I'm telling you. Totally brainless."

"I _told_ you to get here yesterday. You're a real piece of work."

"And _you're_ a piece of..."

The sounds of a struggle replaced Meredith's voice and Castle shook his head.

Meredith said: "gotta go, Rick. The customs thugs have decided to take me into custody. I might have dropped a small diamond or two into the bottle. Totally inadvertent, of course, but try telling that to dumb and dumber here. I'll make it up to Alexis. Tell her that mommy loves her and I'll take her to Disney World for a week in the summer."

"The hell you will," Castle growled before the line went dead.

He took a deep breath before remembering how late he was. _Screw it_ , he thought, _I don't have time to mess around._ He grabbed his keys and hurried to the garage. The Ferrari was about to be loosed on the streets of Manhattan.

* * *

"I'll be here waiting for you," said Katherine as Marilyn exited the car in front of her school.

"Thanks, auntie," Marilyn said, and she dashed past the closed classrooms to the blacktop and finally reached The Oreo Tree at 4:17.

She was alone.

 _I blew it_. _I can't believe I royally screwed it up._

She dropped to the ground and sat with her back against the tree, the same as when she and Jason first met. And then she heard it. A voice, faint, but growing louder.

"Marilyn!"

She looked up and saw Jason running for all he was worth. She wiped away the tears as he skidded to a stop in front of her and took a few deep breaths. His face was red, his hair was blown straight back and his shirt was unbuttoned.

"Thank God," Marilyn said. "I thought I'd missed you."

Jason was still panting. "I―made a quick stop on the way. Well, it should have been a quick stop, but―there was a line at the bodega."

"Why don't you take a minute to stop hyperventilating? Breathe slowly into the paper bag you brought."

He laughed. "I'm OK now. Anyway, I realized that if we were going to meet here, we'd need supplies."

He opened the bag and pulled out a bag of Oreos and a pint of milk.

"Back where we started," Marilyn said. "When we met here, we were both alone. And now we're about to be alone again. Only this time, even though we're on opposite sides of the country, we still have each other in our hearts."

"And we always will," Jason said. He dunked his cookie and she dunked hers and they fed each other delicious, soggy Oreos.

* * *

"You brought your boom box," she said when the cookies were gone.

"I did," he said. "It's nearly dark enough."

"Dark enough? What do you have in mind?"

"You'll know soon enough. Be patient, please." He sat with his back against the tree and Marilyn leaned against him with her back against his chest and he cooed Shakespeare's twenty-ninth sonnet into her ear. His breath was cool and it tickled her ear and when he finished the sonnet with _that then I scorn to change my state with kings_ , she closed her eyes and prayed the night would never end.

Ten minutes later, it had grown sufficiently dark and Jason said "OK, you can see a few stars now. Time to stand up."

He pressed play and she recognized the acoustic guitar immediately. He held out his left hand and took her right hand with it, then wrapped his right arm around her back. She put her left hand on his shoulder and they danced, slowly, their foreheads gently touching as their song played out against the backdrop of The Oreo Tree under the winter stars of Manhattan.

 _Sometimes when this place gets kind of empty,_

 _Sound of their breath fades with the light._

 _I think about the loveless fascination—_

 _Under the Milky Way tonight…_

* * *

"Do you believe in God?" she asked, her eyes fixed on his, which glowed pearlescent blue.

"I guess so," he replied. "We don't go to church or anything, but I've thought about it a lot."

"I'm not sure that I do," she sighed.

"Why not?"

"It's the idea of hell, I guess. It's so...immoral. I mean, my dad killed my mom, and he should be in hell now, right? But she killed him, too, and even if she did it to protect me, is she in hell, too? How can I even consider such a thing? And how can anyone commit a sin so heinous that they need to be punished for _eternity_? It just doesn't make sense to me."

Jason's expression hardened. "You can believe in God without believing in hell," he said. "You can believe in God without believing in the Bible, even. I mean, I don't believe that the world is 6,000 years old and that Adam and Eve were the first humans, or Noah built an ark. But even if I find that stuff nonsense, I still think there has to be _something_ out there. Something greater than us, who loves us and...won't sentence us to eternal damnation for being human."

"The first cause of all things," Marilyn said.

"Huh?"

"The first cause of all things. Saint Thomas Aquinas. He said that all things that exist had to be caused, but if you go back far enough, the very first things couldn't have come into being by themselves, they also had to be caused. Therefore there exists an entity that did not come into its existence from another, but only causes others to come into existence. And it's this entity that we call God."

"How do you know that?" Jason asked.

"It's your fault, you know. You got me thinking about Socrates and that led me to philosophy. I've been reading a lot, and the proofs of God by Thomas Aquinas is one of them."

"Do you believe that?"

"It's as good an explanation as any I've heard. I mean, I find it more convincing than the Big Bang. Even _it_ had to have come from _somewhere_. On the other hand, if you say that the first cause of all things is God, then what caused God? It says in Genesis that God said 'let there be light!' But who said 'let there be God?' And even if there is a God somewhere, who's to say that he created the earth in six days and showed himself to Moses in the burning bush, not to mention had a son who he had sacrificed for our sins. This has led a lot of people down an uncomfortable path. LikeVan Gogh, for instance. He was an atheist."

"Really? I didn't know dogs knew anything about God."

"That's not funny, Jason," Marilyn said through a smile.

He leaned in and kissed her, wrapped his arms around her and with his face nearly touching hers said "don't worry about it, sweetheart. You can't do anything about it, real or not. All you can do is live the best life that you can, every day. That way if there is a hell, you won't go there. And if there is a God, He will welcome you in Heaven with open arms and say that you're a perfect example of a well-lived life. I know this because I know you and I know what's in your heart. As Socrates said 'know thyself.' Everything else will be a breeze."

Suddenly a breeze picked up. The few leaves nearby formed into a small vortex and swirled up, around and over them as they held each under the Oreo Tree for the last time.

* * *

Castle exited the garage, put the Ferrari into neutral and gunned the engine, thinking people would scatter, but instead, a small group gathered around to admire the masterpiece of Italian engineering, blocking Castle's path to the street.

"Nice wheels, dude!" one guy said. "I'm saving up to get one myself." He rubbed his arm on the hood, using his sleeve to try to buff its already pristine shine. His efforts were not appreciated by the Ferrari's driver.

"Move it, dude!" Castle shouted. "I'm in a hurry!"

He moved forward six inches at a time until the nose of the car was in the street and the flock parted like the Red Sea. Fifteen seconds later, the corner light to his left turned red, traffic stopped, and he bolted onto Park Avenue for thirty-eight feet before skidding to a stop. The traffic in this part of town was especially awful, and Castle panicked. He considered backing into the garage and trying the subway, but the light had already turned green and cars were piling up behind him like lemmings.

 _Do I dare_? he thought, casting a critical eye on the sidewalk. There were, of course, far too many people to chance it and he grunted his dissatisfaction. The light turned green and traffic crept forward. Castle was about to abandon his car when he spotted Martha on her way home from a rehearsal.

"Mother!" he shouted. "Mother, over here!" He waved his hands as cars behind him starting honking.

"Richard," Martha said, "is that you?"

Castle nodded. "I need you to do me a favor. Take my car, drive it around the block and park it back in the garage. I don't want to be late for Alexis's recital, so I'm going to take the subway." He undid his seat belt and turned around to return a filthy epithet at the driver behind him.

"Richard, don't be crude!" Martha said. "And I'd love to help you, but you know I can't drive a stick shift."

"It's easy, mother. Clutch in, gas out, shift, gas in, clutch out. I have to go!" He jumped out of the car and helped Martha behind the wheel. Then he took off, running full speed until he reached the Lexington Avenue / 59th Street subway station. He flew down the stairs as fast as he could manage. Fortunately, there was no line for tokens and he made it to the platform just as the southbound IRT was sliding into home.

He rode the train all the way to 23rd Avenue, exited as quickly as he could and started running again. By the time he made it to Gramercy Music Academy, he was covered in sweat and panting. He checked his watch and sighed. Alexis's recital had started twenty minutes ago. By now, it would be over.

* * *

Back on Park Avenue, Martha had stalled the Ferrari sixteen times and a mounted policeman was trying to restore order.

"Not to worry, officer," Martha said, "I've already called AAA. They should be here in a jiffy."

"You left the car here to make a call?" the officer asked.

"Good heavens, no. My son has a car phone. It's the latest thing."

She held it up as a tow truck pulled into place behind the Ferrari. The driver ambled over to Martha and said "you da one who needs a tow?" He took a grease covered cloth out of his pocket and spit a bit of chaw into it, then returned it to its home to mingle with his cigarette lighter, house keys and Pez dispenser.

"I am she, yes. This is my son's car."

The driver looked her up and down, decided she was trustworthy and got to work.

"Ya bedder get out of dere," he said. "You have to ride up front wid me."

Martha glided out of the car and said "ride with you? I'll do nothing of the sort. I'll just walk home from here."

"Suit yaself. Where'm I taking this heap?"

"Right back there," Martha pointed.

"Back where?"

" _There._ Right there. See the garage entrance?"

"What? That's fifty feet away. Wouldn't you rather I take it to, you know, a mechanic or somethin'? You don't want your son working on this baby hisself."

"Work on it? Why would Richard do that? There's nothing _wrong_ with the vehicle, I just can't work the clutch. So kindly take it into the garage whence it came and I'll give you a big tip and we can both get on with our day."

After two more chaw deposits and a round of swearing that would make the First Marine battalion blush, the tow truck driver had the Ferrari safely back in the garage. Martha tipped him as promised, and he drove away shaking his head.

* * *

"Daddy!"

Castle turned to see Alexis, violin in tow, standing in front of him.

"Oh Alexis, I'm so sorry I'm late," he said.

"You're not late. The whole recital is late. The teacher's cab was stuck behind a crazy lady trying to drive a Ferrari in bumper-to-bumper traffic. He just called, so we have to wait until he gets here."

Castle turned bright red. "OK, Alexis, are you ready to play? Do you want to find a practice room for a few minutes?"

"I think I'm OK, daddy. But I'm pretty nervous."

"I see. I get nervous, too, at a book signing. Do you know what I do to relax?"

"You picture everyone in their underwear?"

"Nope. That's terrible advice, no matter what Mike Brady says. I just say to myself 'Rick, you deserve to be here. You did the work. You wrote the book.' And when I think about that, about how much hard work went into writing a book just so I could show up and persuade people to buy it, I feel better. Because I did the work, and that gives me confidence. Now, you've done the work too, right? You've studied your violin and practiced every day?"

Alexis nodded.

"Well," Castle continued, "then just remind yourself of that. And ignore the audience. And," he pointed to his chest, "you look deep into your heart and let the music take over. Play from your heart and you'll be great. I promise."

* * *

Jason had already decided that this parting kiss would be the most romantic kiss of which he was capable. He moved his lips lazily over Marilyn's and cradled her face in his hands, then deepened the kiss, taking care to make it softer and more meaningful than ever before. He thought about all that they had shared, and how much they had grown, and he reached deep down to maintain his composure. His hands helped to steady her head as she wept. And when it was over, they were breathless, spent.

He stood up, said nothing and walked backwards, waving. Marilyn stayed fixed in his vision, silhouetted against the sky. An intense feeling of solitude pulsated through him. The days before they met―those horrible, lonely days when he wished for nothing more than a friend―loomed once again. And then, suddenly, she had simply vanished. Jason's lips quivered.

"Goodbye... _sweetheart._ "


	18. Chapter 18

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Eighteen_

 _It is the East, and Juliet is the Sun_

 _If you truly love someone, being faithful is easy. —_ Unknown

 _September 27, 2000_

Jason cleared his throat and spoke carefully into the phone.

"Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;  
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;  
Being vex'd a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears:  
What is it else? a madness most discreet,  
A choking gall and a preserving sweet."

He waited for Marilyn to say something, anything. He wanted his new passion for Shakespeare and drama to enrich her, to leave her breathless, not cold and indifferent. He was trying to be patient with her; she was still in mourning, after all, and in a way, he was, too. But it had nearly been a year and her aloofness had only increased and he was starting to worry that the distance between them was growing beyond geography.

"Wow," Marilyn finally said, "that was really cool."

"So you liked it? I was worried that I put you to sleep."

"No, not at all. It just took me some time to appreciate it. That kind of language―it's still new to me. I want to savor it, let it roll over my tongue and rattle around in my brain for a while. It's sweeter that way."

"That's exactly how I feel about it!" Jason declared. "I've been spending my nights with _Romeo and Juliet_ and my dictionary. It was slow going at first, but I'm getting better. It's like anything else―the more you do it, the better you get. And here's the best part: I'm doing all this reading because I'm going to try out for the part of Romeo in the spring play."

"That's fantastic! Oh, I wish I could be there to see it."

"I do, too. Assuming I get the part, of course, which is unlikely because I'm just a freshman."

"You'll get it. I have confidence in you."

"What are you reading in English class?" he asked.

" _A Tale of Two Cities_ ," Marilyn said. "I really like it. It's kind of like reading Plato. It's a window into a world that's sometimes hard to imagine ever existed."

She didn't elaborate. Jason wanted Marilyn to talk about something going on in her life without his having to ask, but the silence persisted and he grew forlorn.

"I have some bad news," he finally said. "My parents said we won't be going to New York for Christmas. They didn't even want to discuss it; they just said 'no' and that was it. They've become perfect dictators here in California. This is supposed to be paradise; instead it's a prison state."

"I'm not surprised. It's been nearly a year and they still think I have a weird stigma about me. They think I'm bad news."

"They don't know anything, Marilyn. I do, and that's all that matters. I have to go, though, or it will cost me another dollar in quarters. I love you, sweetheart. Bye."

"I love you too," Marilyn said. She hung up the phone with a sigh.

* * *

"Hi, sweetheart," Castle said. "How are you?"

"I'm good, daddy," said Alexis. "Grandma's taking good care of me."

"I knew she would. After all, she took good care of me when I was a little boy."

"What do you mean?"

Castle imagined the puzzled look on Alexis's face―the narrowed eyes and wrinkled nose, the frown that she somehow managed to apply to just the right side of her mouth. He had seen it many times before, and it never failed to amuse him.

"I mean that just like you have a mommy, so do I. And that's grandma."

"Grandma is your mommy? Wow, how funny. I had no idea. So that's why she says you've never grown up. She'd know."

Castle laughed. "Yes, she'd know. And one day, when you have a baby of your own, I'll be its grandpa and your mommy will be its grandma. And your grandma will be it's _great_ -grandma. Isn't that cool?"

"Huh?"

Castle laughed again. "Oh, it's nothing. Now I have to go sell some books. And it's past your bedtime, so be a good girl and don't give grandma a hard time about it. I'll be home in a few days and I'll bring you something special. Goodnight, Alexis."

"Goodnight, daddy."

Castle hung up the phone with a smile.

* * *

Marilyn was bored. The lawyer was droning on and on in a thick stream of unintelligible legalese and she had long ago stopped paying attention. Katherine, it turned out, was a stern, methodical woman with a philosophy of raising children borrowed from _Les Miserables_ despite having none of her own, and she elbowed Marilyn.

"Pay attention," she whispered. "This should be of the greatest possible concern to you."

Marilyn blinked, the action causing her to flash forward. She heard the lawyer say "and all my remaining assets are to be kept in a trust for my daughter Marilyn until she graduates from high school. Then she may use the funds for her college education and other expenses that may befall her."

"Didn't we cover this in January?" Marilyn asked. "Why go through all this rigamarole again?"

The lawyer coughed. "Because," he said, "there's been a substantial change in the trust fund, I'm afraid. All of the money that your mother had invested on your behalf is...gone."

" _Gone_?" Marilyn said. "Wasn't there $38,000 in that account?"

"Actually, no. I'm afraid your mother was scammed, Marilyn. She invested in a Ponzi scheme."

"Oh no!" said Katherine.

"What's a Ponzi scheme?" Marilyn said.

"It's a con," the lawyer explained. "Your mother invested money with a man named Benjamin Marzgoff. He took the money your mother gave him, along with money from many other people, and instead of investing it, he used part of it to pay people who had invested with him earlier and kept a large chunk of it for himself. You see, a Ponzi scheme needs new investors all the time, to pay people higher up the chain so it looks like it's working, but eventually it folds because there are more existing investors than new ones to pay them. And part of the fraud is that Mr. Marzgoff was publishing radically fraudulent numbers. In your mother's case, she only invested about $4,000 and Mr. Marzgoff used it to pay other people. He never invested it. Even if he did, there's no way that $4,000 could realistically be turned into $38,000 in a year. Not legally, at least."

"I can't believe she was that naive," Katherine said. "Can't Marilyn sue to get back her mother's original investment?"

"A class action lawsuit is in the works," the lawyer replied. "But there's very little chance that Marilyn will realize anything from it. There are just too many investors and very limited assets from which to draw. I'm sorry. I'll keep you posted on the status, though."

"How much will it cost Marilyn to be part of the lawsuit?"

"Nothing. All legal fees are being paid for by Mr. Marzgoff's estate, including my own."

"Lawyer's fees that eat into the amount of money paid to the victims," Marilyn said.

The lawyer nodded, but said nothing and Marilyn and Katherine slowly left his office.

* * *

Jason was trying not to get too excited. _You're only the understudy_ , he told himself, _so don't let it go to your head._ But he knew he had to be prepared just in case, so he paid close attention at rehearsal, said the lines in his head with the actors and read the play every night. But no matter how badly he wanted the part and how much of his attention it demanded, his thoughts always turned to Marilyn. She had written him a single letter in the nine months since he left, and he read it at least once a night. But it meandered, as though she couldn't concentrate and finish a thought and he was always frustrated when he finished. He moped around the house until his parents took him aside.

"Don't worry, son," his father told him. "Like I said, there will be other girls." He chucked Jason on the chin and Jason turned his head in disgust.

"Your father's right, Jason," his mother said. "First relationships end. There's no reason to let it ruin your life."

She hugged him, his arms hanging lifelessly at his sides. "If it _did_ end, it's only because we moved to this awful place," he said and he slunk to his room and blacked it out.

But a week later, David Spinoza, Romeo himself, broke his ankle playing soccer and Jason stepped into the role determined to make it his own. He worked hard, harder than he ever did at the saxophone, and as he gained confidence, his diction improved greatly. As the rehearsals piled up, his listening skills improved too, and he was picking up the cues expertly. He wrote Marilyn, told her the good news and how happy it had made him, but by this time he wasn't expecting any response. And before he knew it, it was opening night.

"You're a _much_ better Romeo than David," Vicki Jensen, who played Juliet, told him during dress rehearsal. She took him aside and whispered "and a much better kisser, too."

He blushed and turned away.

* * *

Marilyn was still having trouble sleeping. The nightmare of her parents' death had hung over her for months, the images always the same: destruction, blood, death. She replayed the night over and over in her mind, her gaze fixed as it swept from her father to Socrates Van Gogh, and then, with the police pounding on her door, to her mother. It always ended with the cops bursting in, and instead of the actual confusion of that night—the paramedics, the officers, the endless and humiliating questions—it merely faded to black.

But in the past month, something had changed. It was as though her mind was altering the past, giving her something to hold onto. Now when she dreamt, the police never arrived. Limited by reality no more, she was free to roam about the apartment, to take her wherever her subconscious wished. But she couldn't do it. She just stood there, motionless and mute, staring at her mother's body as though to will her back to life. Night after night, she relived the pain until her mind was ready to snap, and it always forced her awake.

And then one night the dream changed again. This time, something caught her attention, a movement out of the corner of her eye. She twisted her head to the left, and the movement matched her own.

Her own reflection on the window next to her father's body was mocking her. She remembered seeing it once before, when she was in the car on her way to her aunt and uncle's house. Now it had popped up again.

She woke up in a cold sweat and sat in the dark, wondering how she could have forgotten that haunting image of herself, until exhaustion took over and she slept again. And so it happened, night after night, pain following pain, her reflection ever present, ever tormenting.

 _What did I do?_ she wondered.

And that was when the guilt set in.

* * *

The play ended, and the cast gathered onstage for curtain calls. It was a standing ovation, and Jason and Vicki basked in the adulation. They held hands, smiled and waved as the applause washed over them. For five solid minutes the audience raved and Jason had visions of a triumphant return to New York for his Broadway debut.

 _He's holding my hand!_ Vicki thought.

 _This is better than jazz,_ Jason thought.

And that night, his head full of triumph and praise, he dreamt.

He was Romeo and Juliet was on the balcony. The most recognizable scene in the play, and one of the most famous in all of drama.

 _But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?_

 _It is the east, and Juliet is the sun._

 _Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,_

 _Who is already sick and pale with grief,_

 _That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she._

He awoke. In his dream, Juliet had been Vicki, just as she had been a few hours before. Jason grimaced, shook his head and thought back to when he first told Marilyn he loved her, in the botanical gardens. She shone so brightly in his mind that he thought she had absorbed all the light from the sun.

 _Yes_ , he thought, _New York is the east, and Marilyn is the sun. I love her, no matter what. And I always will._


	19. Chapter 19

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Nineteen_

 _Nightmares_

" _I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top." —_ John Keats

 _November 18, 2000_

Jason's letters were arriving less often and Marilyn was worried. _He's losing interest in me_ , she thought, and she placed the blame squarely on herself. He still called, though less frequently and their conversations had become shorter, the silence within them longer, her guilt more profound.

"Write to me," he pleaded, and the frustration in his voice was palpable. "Take your time, form your thoughts, put them on paper."

She tried, often, in fact, but her life was so wrapped up in pain that little else occupied her mind, and the stack of letters she had started and quit, some with only the words 'Dear Jason' to document the effort, was piling up. Jason's letters were full of news about school and, especially, acting. He had joined the drama club and played Joe Ferone in _Up the Down Staircase_ , but Marilyn simply wasn't interested. She wanted to be happy for him, and she supposed if he was still in New York and she could watch him on stage it would be different, but without that anchor she was lost in a sea of indifference. The jazz CD's he had given her were growing dusty in a box under her bed. And the constant stress that she felt was beginning to take a physical toll on her as well.

"You look exhausted," Katherine said. "Are you having trouble sleeping?"

She was, of course, though she didn't admit it. She was still dreaming a few times a week, still being tormented by her own reflection, still searching for meaning in a situation devoid of any. She began thinking of herself as a passerby who happened upon the scene of her parents' murder too late to do anything but grieve and wait for the police to take her away. The dreams were, in a way, real. She lived through the murders and there was no need for her subconscious to fill in gaps—reality more than sufficed. Every detail, every nuance was firmly embedded in her memory, and when they rose to the surface and coalesced into a nightmare they did so with such harrowing vividness that she became afraid to go back to sleep. Finally she thought back to when she met Jason and how hopeless things had seemed. He had brought a sense of optimism to her life that she sorely needed, despite the uncertainty behind her father's behavior and she was finally happy again. For a short time she had someone her own age to turn to, someone who would listen to her and dote on her every word. Someone to console her and hold her. Someone to call her sweetheart and tell her that he loved her. And now that optimism was all but gone―snuffed out as surely as her parents' lives had been. Things were worse than before she met Jason, and she felt that somehow all of it was her fault. The fact that none of it was never occurred to her.

 _I've regressed,_ she wailed, head in hands.

And the nightmares continued.

* * *

 _September 11, 2001_

Martha was shaking Castle as hard as she could. "Richard, wake up!" she said, with panic in her voice.

Castle rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "What is it? Alexis?"

"Yes. She can't sleep. She needs you, Richard."

He grabbed his bathrobe and hurried over to Alexis' room. She was sitting up in bed, sniffling, her dinosaur blanket wrapped tightly around her. Her lamp was on the lowest setting, providing just enough light to see. Castle sat next to her and put his arms around her.

"You're having nightmares?" he asked, and he wiped her tears away with his fingers. She nodded and hugged him tighter.

"All those people," she sobbed.

"You're safe, Alexis. I promise you."

"But I'm not worried about me, daddy, I'm worried about _them._ They had families, they had people that loved them. Now what?"

"Now we do whatever we can to help those families. Donate money, clothing, food...whatever they need. We stick together, honey—as New Yorkers, as Americans and as human beings."

"As Christians?"

Her question had the same pleading intensity to it as when she was four and asked Castle if he could save her goldfish, Goldie.

 _Such an innocent question,_ Castle thought, _but so hard to answer. But I have to be honest with her—to a point._

"Some of those people aren't Christians, Alexis. And that's OK, because it's a big world with lots of different people who believe different things. But you know what? Whether they're Christians or Muslims or Jews, or any other religion, they all believe in one thing—God. They might have different names for Him or believe He works in different ways, but in the end, it's all about God. And that's why it's so important not to hate people, sweetheart. We're all human beings, and we need to concentrate on what we have in common. That way we can do just what you did—remember them as people—not Christian people or Muslin people or Hindu people or anything else. Then, when we do that, we find out that we really care about everyone, all people all over the world. And then we can help them, like I said."

"I don't understand, daddy."

Castle thought for a moment. "Think of it like this...there's a big mountain, and on top of that mountain is God. Now there are many ways to get to the top, many paths, many trails. And they all lead to the same place—to God. It doesn't matter if you take the Christian trail or the Muslim trail or the Hindu trail or the Jewish trail...or any of the others. The important thing is where you going, not how you got there."

Alexis smiled. "That makes perfect sense."

Castle tucked her in and stayed with her until she fell asleep. Watching her he remembered his own childhood fears—the playground bully, the maniac with a chain saw, the beating heart under the floor—and he stayed with Alexis until it was light enough to turn off the lamp. When he made his way to the kitchen, he was surprised to see Martha sitting at the table with a cup of tea reading the _New York Daily News_. The headline— _IT'S WAR_ —and a photo of a burning tower with the second plane in sight, dominated the front page.

"Well, well," she said, "my son the agnostic tells his daughter there's a God."

"You stayed up just to remind me of that?" Castle said. "Not to worry, mother. I told her that religious people believe in God. I didn't tell her that I'm not religious. Especially after what happened yesterday."

"I know, I was listening. But when are you planning to have that conversation, Richard? Alexis is a naturally curious child. She'll be asking more questions soon."

"When she brings it up, I guess. She's never mentioned God before, or going to church or anything."

"After today, it's no wonder she's thinking about it. What will you do if she wants you to take her to church?"

"Then I'll take her and let her see what it's all about. I want her to make up her own mind, not follow me without thinking about it. That's where I fell off the rails. I figured that belief in God was simply what people did. But I looked around and paid attention to people as a writing exercise, and I realized when I saw what was happening in the world that I had way too many questions for a simple, happy life. So I thought about it more, read deeply, considered the arguments. In the end, I just can't bring myself to believe in something for which there is no proof."

"That's where faith comes in, Richard. Belief in something that you can't prove." She said it sternly, and Castle caught the undercurrent of disapproval in her voice.

"But I can't see faith as a virtue, mother. I can't believe in something just because some other people said it's all true. I have to find out for myself. And until I do, I choose to believe that there may be a God, but there may not be as well. I'm open to belief if proof somehow appears, though. And come to think of it, in the question of eternal life versus eternal damnation, why is God so mysterious, so hard to find? Why does He leave so much room for ambiguity? Why give us a book that's so easy to misunderstand and mistranslate? Shouldn't these questions be the ones for which there's the _most_ proof? The way He's setup the world guarantees that some won't believe, and they'll end up in hell. An omniscient God knows who will fail and who will succeed. He knows this in advance, even before anyone was ever born, which means that some people don't have a chance at eternal life—they're simply damned, myself included. Why cause them to be born, only to know that He will ultimately condemn them no matter what they do? Where's the virtue in that? If Alexis asks me what I think, that's exactly what I'll tell her, along with advising her to think about it for herself and make up her own mind. But not right now. She's still too young for me to lay it on the line like that, so I'll go along with her wishes until she's old enough to understand."

Martha put her hand on Castle's and smiled. "That's good," she said, but the look on her face said otherwise.

* * *

December 26, 2000

Boyd was losing patience. "Marilyn, come join us for dinner!" he shouted. "Your food is getting cold!"

"Leave her alone," Katherine said. "She's in mourning."

" _Still?_ She has to get on with her life, honey. This isn't healthy."

"What do you expect her to do? Forget that her parents were murdered? That's just not realistic, especially today."

Boyd's face drained of its color. "God," he said. "I totally forgot the date."

"A year ago today," Katherine said. "So give her some space and let her mourn in her own way."

Marilyn had heard enough. She walked to the bathroom, locked the door and looked in the mirror. She was shocked at her appearance—dark, wrinkly bags under her eyes, tangled hair, cheekbones practically bursting out of her skin. She sat on the edge of the tub and sighed.

 _He hasn't called in over a month,_ she thought.

She rolled up her right sleeve and looked at her arm. She placed her left hand on her right wrist and slid it upward, feeling the smooth, pink skin. She stopped and closed her eyes, then moved her thumb along her upper arm, feeling the scratches and wincing at the painful reaction it caused. Then she did the same to her left arm, where the scratches were a little deeper, the scars thicker, the pain more intense.

 _It still doesn't hurt enough_ , she thought.

She pulled out a hobby knife and pushed it into the skin, drawing blood. She exhaled hard as she grappled with the pain. She looked at her arm, watched a small trail of blood trickle down until it stopped in the crook of her elbow. She dipped a finger in it and smeared it down to her wrist.

Then she cut herself again.


	20. Chapter 20

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Twenty_

 _Progress_

" _Choose to be optimistic; it feels better."_ —Dalai Lama XIV

 _December 29, 2000_

Dr. Ramona Gilbert's office was a formal space, as Marilyn suspected it would be. The beige walls were decorated only with diplomas, there were shelves full of textbooks and reference works and the lighting, supplied by a banker's lamp, was soft and dim. The desk, an oak monstrosity with a laptop and yet more books was placed under the only window. It was supplemented by a high-backed leather chair on wheels. The blinds were open wide enough to see spots of rain on the windows and trees bending in the wind against gray skies. There was a well-worn upholstered chair to the right of the desk, but no couch. Marilyn chuckled at that. She, like so many others, tended to think that all psychiatrist's offices were carbon copies of Freud's. She sat down and in the same moment she heard the door open and watched the wheels of the chair retreat and return. Then a voice on the edge of her consciousness said "I'm Dr. Gilbert. So, Miss Singletary, what brings you here today?"

Marilyn understood the innocuousness of the question, but still she probed her mind for a deeper, hidden meaning. _Don't be so suspicious,_ she thought. _That's why you're here_. _To find the meaning. To let go of the paranoia. To get some semblance of a life back._ She told herself to slow down and let the process work. She looked at Dr. Gilbert, then sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

"I've been having trouble sleeping," she said. "Nightmares about my parents that won't go away. A year ago they murdered each other with me in the other room. I can't...I can't find any peace, I guess." She didn't mention that she had starting cutting herself.

She waited for a reaction from Dr. Gilbert—how many patients could she have whose parents murdered each other?—but the doctor remained stoic for a few seconds before asking "why can't you find any peace?"

Marilyn was confused. "Aren't _you_ supposed to tell _me_ _?_ " she asked.

"No, that would be too easy. My role is to help you figure that out for yourself. It's called the Socratic method."

Now Marilyn was paying close attention. "What?" she asked. "You mean like Socrates?"

"Exactly. I ask you questions, and your answers lead me to the next question. Together we'll uncover what's bothering you and see what we can do to bring you some peace. And some badly needed rest."

 _I must look like hell_ , Marilyn thought, but she liked what she was hearing. She had read enough Plato to understand how the Socratic Method worked and this was a chance to experience it firsthand, with a trained professional. She took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. Dr. Gilbert's stare was unwavering, but still she showed no emotion. Marilyn thought she seemed young to be a doctor, and wondered how long it had taken her.

"Are you concentrating or drifting?" Dr. Gilbert asked.

Marilyn shook her head and emerged from the fog. "I can't help thinking it was all my fault," she said weakly. She closed her eyes so hard that she felt pressure on her eyeballs and she snapped her eyes open again. Little yellow streaks of light, like comets, seemed to be shooting all around her field of vision.

"Did you read the police report?" she finally asked.

"I did."

"So you know what happened."

"I do, and one thing is perfectly clear to me, Marilyn: this wasn't your fault. So why do you blame yourself?"

Marilyn had been considering this for more than a year. The thing that was eating her inside was not rational, but her dreams were so vivid it seemed real. It was her reflection. In her dreams she was looking at the ground, and when she looked up, she saw herself reflected in the glass. It had happened so often that she was no longer sure if that's the way it had actually happened or whether the reflection itself was simply a manifestation of her unconscious mind. And the more she dreamed, the more the experience was like the entire responsibility of that night was being thrust back at herself, by herself. She was beginning to wonder if she was becoming bipolar.

"Marilyn?" Dr. Gilbert said.

* * *

The campus of Stanford University was beautiful, even on an overcast, windy spring day. Kate Beckett started her morning at the Rodin Sculpture Garden, knowing that if she went inside the museum proper she would miss her appointment. It was so easy to spend hours gazing at the collections—she had spent an entire afternoon in the African collection one lazy Saturday, lost in the splendor of the masks and carvings from ancient Egypt, Morocco and Kenya—and she couldn't afford to miss her appointment. The Rodin sculptures, despite their familiarity, still awed her. _The Gates of Hell, The Burghers of Calais, The Three Shades_ ; all of them so amazingly detailed, conveying so much emotion that it seemed as though there were people encased in them, like Han Solo in Carbonite. She made her way back to Campus Drive, taking in the heavenly scent of the Eucalyptus grove to the south, then straight up Palm Drive, choosing the right side of the loop, and ending up at the church, the starting point for so many tourists. The walk never ceased to amaze her. Stanford was a world away from New York, full of palm trees, arches and sandstone buildings with adobe roofs, all butted up against beautiful, grassy hills with more trees than in all of Manhattan, but the moment she arrived on campus she knew that despite it being so different from her home, it was the perfect place for her. _Maybe_ _ **because**_ _it's so different from New York,_ she was like so many other college students on their own for the first time; what better way to gain one's independence than by striking out in a wholly different direction, a different coast, even? If one can truly have a home away from home, then this was hers.

But recently, something had changed. Since her mother's murder she had been having second thoughts about staying at Stanford, and even about continuing with pre-law. She missed her father terribly and wanted to be with him, at home, to help him cope. She imagined he was suffering terribly, and he was, but she didn't stop to think that she was, too. Instead, she fixated on the nagging idea that the detective in charge simply didn't do a thorough investigation because if he did, he would have realized that the murder was _not_ random gang violence. _Is he having trouble sleeping, too?_ she wondered. _Is his conscience eating him alive?_ She was asking questions that should have led a bright, inquisitive college student to a new plateau of self-realization, but she didn't realize it.

The day was beginning to take on a lazy feel; the sun was bearing down oppressively, there was a steady drone of nearby crickets and the campus itself seemed deserted. Kate stopped. She felt exhausted for some reason and her eyes felt heavy, as though she had been awake for days. She closed them slowly and took a deep breath and the air was so hot that it burned her lungs.

A gunshot sounded. Kate snapped her eyes open in fear and looked around. There were a few people milling about, none of them seemingly worried at all. Was it a car backfiring? No, there were no cars in sight. Gradually, her fear gave way to the realization that the gunshot sound was in her head. Even the heat wasn't real—it was still overcast and there was a slight, cool breeze blowing through the tress. As much as she hated to admit it, she realized again that her mother's murder was still weighing heavily on her. She hadn't experienced hallucinations before, though, and she felt her heart beating a little faster, like she was just home from her daily run.

She checked the time and resumed her trek. The Vaden Health Center was on the southern edge of campus, a fair distance to walk, but she liked having time to think. Darkness fell over her as deep gray clouds began to fill the sky. She breathed in deeply and smiled; there was rain in the air. It didn't rain here often, and that made her appreciate it all the more.

She took a few steps, stopped, then looked up and closed her eyes as the first raindrops fell on her face. Almost immediately the rain was falling steadily, and she hunched over and drew her jacket over her head before breaking into a trot. But she was already as wet as she could be, and the rain was cold and refreshing so she stopped and twirled around in a circle. Suddenly she was seven years old again, dancing in the rain with her mother, just a child without a care in the world. She let the rain drip down her face, her neck, her hair, her hands. Then she saw a puddle and jumped, landing with both feet squarely in it and the water splashed outwards like blossoming fireworks and what remained in the puddle seeped into her shoes and went 'squish.'

* * *

"I need the nightmares to stop," Marilyn said, nearly pleading.

"The only way that's going to happen is for you to let go of the guilt," Dr. Gilbert replied. She looked at Marilyn carefully. The seconds ticked away. Marilyn thought it must be some kind of test. Finally Dr. Gilbert said "Have you read the police report?"

"No. I was there, I know what happened better than the police do."

"I doubt that, Marilyn. They're trained professionals, detached from emotion. You were in your room, so you didn't see the shootings. When you came out you looked at your parents as their daughter, with love and sorrow and regret. You could have missed all sorts of details, things that would clarify what happened. You need this to understand that there was nothing you could have done to prevent it."

"You have a point," Marilyn conceded.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

Marilyn shook her head.

"Are you sure?" Dr. Gilbert said. "When your foster mother called, she told me that your boyfriend moved across the country. She's sure that's contributing to your depression. She's also afraid you might be hurting yourself."

She said it softly and without any trace of accusation in her tone. Marilyn shook her head again.

"OK, then let's leave it here for today. Take the police report home and read it. Then we can discuss it next week. OK?"

"OK," Marilyn said.

Dr. Gilbert placed the report in a large manila envelope and handed it to Marilyn. "See you next Friday, Marilyn."

Marilyn stood, nodded and left.

* * *

Beckett stood in front of the health center, unsure of whether to go in. She was still twenty minutes early for her appointment and it had stopped raining. The fragrance of a cleansed Earth lingered in the air―a mixture of wet gravel, moist grass and thousands of blossoming flowers hitting her all at once. She never experienced this sort of sensory overload in New York, even in the relatively pastoral setting of Central Park. There were too many cars, too many people, too much noise. Here she was in a remote part of a campus that despite its population was still called "The Farm," and she had no trouble imagining a herd of sheep or cattle around every corner. The clouds began to slowly give way to blue skies, and the sun, as though it were celebrating, bathed the campus in soft, warm light. Soon birds began singing, frogs began croaking and crickets starting chirping and it was all so different from Manhattan, and magical.

Still she hesitated. She wanted to move past the pain, but was this the way to do it—pouring out her pain to a school psychologist? She had been rather forcefully reminded of how different things were for her at Stanford, and that's when it hit her. The only way for her to truly heal was to be home. She was too removed from the reality of Joanna's murder; with an entire country between herself and New York she had no control, no influence in the healing process of herself or her father. It was the phantom gunshot that did it, she realized. The shock of her mother's murder coupled with the serenity of life at Stanford—the stark contrast of her old life with her new one would be a catalyst for her to make a change. She could go home and enroll at Columbia or NYU―even change her major from pre-law to criminal justice. She would become a detective and in the course of that new career, solve her mother's murder.

 _This is a sign, a calling, like men who are called to the priesthood_ , she told herself. So she let her burdens run down the path with the rest of the rain and she turned around and walked in the opposite direction, to the dean's office to tell them she was going to leave Stanford at the end of the quarter and continue her studies at home.

* * *

January 5, 2001

Marilyn was a few minutes late to the next appointment. Dr. Gilbert didn't say anything about it, though, and Marilyn was relieved not to tell her that she hadn't gotten to sleep until after the sun had come up. But Dr. Gilbert knew anyway. It showed in Marilyn's face, in her posture, in her nearly slurred greeting.

"You didn't sleep well again last night?" Dr. Gilbert said.

Marilyn shook her head.

"Well, I'm going to call your...aunt and uncle." She had almost said 'parents' reflexively, and she felt greatly relieved that she had caught it in time. Marilyn looked at her quizzically. "I think you need a prescription to help you sleep," the doctor continued. "You're suffering, Marilyn. This isn't healthy. In fact, you need a complete physical."

The relief Marilyn felt at hearing this surprised her. It was so simple, and she wondered why neither she nor her aunt had thought of it. She _was_ suffering, and wanted more than anything to be rid of this plague.

"Do you think," Marilyn said, "that I'm suffering from delusions?"

"No," Dr. Gilbert said, with as much conviction as she could muster. "In fact, I think you're a remarkably strong young woman who's being tormented by events that would traumatize anyone."

She smiled, and Marilyn felt an inner satisfaction for the first time since that awful day. _This feels right_ , she thought. _I'm making progress,_ and she managed a smile of her own.


	21. Chapter 21

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Twenty-one_

 _Changes_

" _Even if the hopes you started out with are dashed, hope has to be maintained."_ —Seamus Heaney

 _January 9, 2001_

Marilyn emerged from her room showered and dressed. Her hair was neatly brushed, her eyes were clear and bright, and, most telling, she had a smile that lit up her face. She plopped down at the dining room table and swallowed a drink of orange juice, and even the cool, sweet sensation inside her mouth was thrilling.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Katherine said. "You look well this morning."

"I feel great," Marilyn replied. "I slept through the night. Didn't wake up once. And no nightmare, either."

"Oh that's wonderful!" Katherine shouted. She wrapped her arms around Marilyn and hugged her. "So the medication worked, huh?"

"Well, it's only been one night, so it's too soon to tell. But I'm optimistic."

The rest of the week passed the same way, and Marilyn felt more rested each morning. On Friday, when Katherine dropped Marilyn off at Dr. Gilbert's office after school, she exited the car with her head held high, feeling better than she had since the murders.

"I think I had a breakthrough," Marilyn said as soon as she sat down. "I've been dreaming about the murders again. Not nightmares at all, because I'm not seeing my reflection anymore, and the dream isn't waking me up. And I figured out why. It turns out that all this time I was blaming my mother for what happened." She smiled smugly, as though she had just made a winning observation in a debate.

Dr. Gilbert was taken aback. This was about the last thing she expected to hear. "You were?" she asked. "Why is that? From what I read in the police report, she saved your life. A lot of that was based on what you told them."

"I read that too, and I realized it on some level all along, of course, but I realized something else. It's been rattling around in the back of my head for a while and it finally came out. It's the timeline. I heard three shots. The first one was when my dad killed Socrates Van Gogh."

Marilyn noted the confused look on Dr. Gilbert's face. "He was my dog," she explained. "I know the police report just says 'dog,' but he was mine and I want to give him the dignity of his name. Anyway, my dad shot Socrates Van Gogh because he was being attacked. At that point, he had no reason to shoot my mom. Socrates Van Gogh was dead and dad could have gotten what he wanted and left. So the second shot must have been from my mom. Remember, I was in my room—I only heard the shots, I didn't see them. I blamed her for both my dad's death and her own. If she hadn't gotten the gun in the first place, she wouldn't have shot him and he wouldn't have shot her back. They'd both still be alive."

Dr. Gilbert sat there, speechless, for half a minute before finally saying "don't you think your dad may have been threatening your mom? Moving toward her in menacing way? The coroner said he was highly intoxicated and the police report said he shot first."

"They just said that because he was so drunk. But I don't believe it."

"So how does that make you feel, Marilyn? You said you _were_ blaming your mom. Has something changed since you figured that out?"

" _Everything_ changed," Marilyn said. "Once I realized that she shot first, I thought about what was going on in her mind. And I realized that buying the gun wasn't an easy decision. She was afraid for my life and her own. My dad had beaten her up before, put her in the hospital, in fact. She was just doing what she could to protect me. It had to be the worst decision of her life, but she did it with my safety in mind. And in her mind, the fact that he _could_ hurt me was provocation in itself. So she shot him. But he didn't die right away. He shot her back and they both died."

 _This is too easy_ , Dr. Gilbert thought. _She can't really expect that knowing this will make things instantly better._ Marilyn paused and looked away, staring into space, the smugness gone. She faced Dr. Gilbert again and continued, but slower. "So I simply thought about that for a long time. I cried a lot, I won't lie, and I still blamed her for a while, but eventually I forgave her. I realized that she quite literally gave her life for me, and I'll always love her for that, even if things turned out like this."

Dr. Gilbert waited a bit for Marilyn to compose herself before saying "and all this happened after you started getting some sleep?"

Marilyn nodded. "I was on the prescription, and falling asleep early. I woke up feeling good―good enough to finally start thinking clearly again. I was able to analyze the dream dispassionately—" she pronounced the word carefully; it was thoroughly rehearsed—"and I finally figured it out."

Her eyes were brimming with tears and Dr. Gilbert offered her a tissue. Something about the way she held it out was familiar and Marilyn flashed back to her first meeting with Jason. She was sitting against the Oreo tree, crying, and Jason offered her a napkin for her tears—a simple gesture, but in retrospect, it was a like a life jacket, rescuing her from the tsunami of her father's drinking.

And with nothing more than a tissue proffered just so, everything changed again.

* * *

Marilyn practically tore down her bedroom door. She dove on the floor and reached under her bed for the stack of letters she had started writing to Jason. She read each one and threw them all away. Pulling out a fresh piece of paper and a pen, she laid on the bed and started writing a new letter, one she was determined to finish. She wrote for hours, thinking, revising, writing more. She apologized to Jason for being aloof, blamed it on the stress of losing her parents and having to live with her aunt and uncle, made excuse after excuse, but she tore that up, too. Once again she started fresh and this time she just poured out her heart. She wrote about everything that had happened—the nightmares, the stress, the sleepless nights, the psychiatrist, even the cutting. And she explained her revelation about her mother, and how she had forgiven her and was ready again to face life.

She wrote until she fell asleep, unaided this time, and she dreamed. She dreamed about her mother, and all the love she had given to her only child, so much that the cost of it was her own life. And Marilyn realized that she was no longer trapped by the past, that with forgiveness came understanding and with understanding came liberation at last. And her dream faded into nothingness and her mind was still and calm and she slept.

When she woke up the next morning the sunlight was just starting to break through her window blinds. She yawned and started writing again. She filled seventeen pages, front and back, with pain and frustration, apologies and love. And at the end, when she had explained all that there was to explain and left her tears on the page, she finished by writing "I love you, sweetheart. And I always will."

The letter was in the mail that day.

* * *

Jim Beckett swept his daughter into his arms and sobbed on her shoulder. "I can't believe you're home for good. I've had an awful time without the two of you."

Kate already knew that. They were standing in the living room and with just a casual glance she saw three empty Scotch bottles and several crushed beer cans. They parted, and Kate saw that her father's eyes were red and wet with tears. She took a handkerchief out of her purse and offered it to him and he dabbed at his face and handed it back to her.

 _He looks so vulnerable, so...human,_ she thought. _Not at all the superman I grew up with._ This was only the second time she had seen her father cry. The first, of course, was when they learned of Joanna's murder. She didn't count the times she heard him in the middle of the night or the way he let go at Joanna's funeral; to her they were all part of the same trauma.

Then again, so was this. Kate suffered at Stanford, with a loneliness she could never have imagined. She had her own share of sleepless nights and it wasn't long before she had a new roommate, and then another and another. She picked up the phone countless times only to put it down again, reasoning that she had to be strong or she'd never push past it.

 _Besides_ , she thought, _I can't expect dad to help me when he needs help himself_. She could have, of course—that's what parents have always done for their children. But Kate wasn't exactly reasoning well, so she went to class, spent hours in the library and avoided people who could have helped her.

It was her midterms that caused her to make that appointment. She got nothing higher than a B minus, and that was in Constitutional Law, not exactly a good omen for a future lawyer. She made the appointment that same day. But the weather had intervened, and the daydream. Suddenly she could no longer stay away from her home and her family.

And her family needed help to stop drinking.

* * *

 _January 15, 2001_

Jason was speechless. He was balancing a thick envelope on the palm of his hand, moving it up and down in the universal gesture to show that it was heavier than it looked.

"A letter?" his mother asked.

Jason nodded. "It's from Marilyn," he said. "Her first letter to me since we moved. It's pretty thick. She must have had a lot to say."

 _I should think so_ , Patricia thought. She was glad that Marilyn was out of their lives, but somehow her refusal to write to Jason rubbed Patricia the wrong way. She looked at Jason closely, but said nothing. Jason was glancing around the living room, seemingly unsure of what to do.

"Why don't you go read it in private?" Patricia offered.

"Yeah," Jason said. He shoved the letter in his back pocket and hurried to his room, grabbing a bag of Oreos along the way.

"Here," Katherine said, holding out an envelope to Marilyn. "It's from the law firm that handled your mother's estate."

Marilyn opened the envelope. "It's a check!" she exclaimed, and she hopped up and down in a silly, happy dance. "That was quick. I expected it to take a couple of years after what the lawyer said."

Her enthusiasm was immediately dashed, though. She handed the check to Katherine with a look of abject dejection on her face.

"$37.00?" Katherine said. "That's _it?_ "

For an answer, Marilyn went to her room, shut the door and turned out all the lights.


	22. Chapter 22

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Twenty-two_

 _Control_

" _Only a fool will not change his plans when his circumstances change." —_ Glen Rambharack

 _January 15, 2001, continued_

Marilyn was early, and she spent the minutes waiting for Dr. Gilbert by perusing the contents of her bookshelves. Most of it was, predictably, psychology textbooks but there was an occasional novel or philosophy book. Dr. Gilbert had an eclectic taste in reading and Marilyn made a mental note to find out what _God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater_ and _The Woman Warrior_ were all about. She was just about to sit back down when she saw _The Republic._ It was a Penguins Classics edition with a mosaic on the cover that she had seen in the library many times. She took it off the shelf and flipped through it, then sat down and began to read. She had only covered a few pages when Dr. Gilbert entered. Marilyn looked up and closed the book.

"The unexamined life is not worth living," she announced.

"I've heard that," Dr. Gilbert replied with a smile.

"Socrates said that. I'm something of a fan." She settled into her chair and put the book on her lap.

Dr. Gilbert raised her eyebrows. "Oh, of course. That explains your interest in the Socratic method. And the name of your dog, too. Well, half of his name."

They shared a chuckle and Marilyn held up the book. "I hope you don't mind," she said.

"No, not at all. Books are meant to be read. And Plato's _Republic_ is one of my favorite philosophy books."

"I've tried to read this before, but it was too hard. I have, however, read books _about_ Plato. It's pretty incredible stuff."

"Yes, indeed it is. But sooner or later, reading the actual works will help you to a deeper understanding, even if it takes a long time, so I'm glad to see you're giving it another try."

Marilyn nodded. Dr. Gilbert waited a moment before asking "how have you been sleeping, Marilyn?"

"Fine. And without drugs, too. Even the nightmares have completely gone away. And I'm waking up feeling fresh and ready for the day." She said it with a kind of bashful smile, and her face tinged a pale red. She shuffled her feet in a joyful seated dance.

"That's wonderful! And things are going well at home, too?"

"They are. Just one thing, though."

Marilyn related the facts of her mother's will and the paltry check she received, but something about the way she said it made Dr. Gilbert hopeful. Marilyn was speaking with a palpable optimism that seemed to have emerged all of a sudden. Her words had an effortless flow to them and she was emphasizing certain points, such as her feeling that she and her mother had been cheated, with a newfound maturity. When she was done, she exhaled and leaned back with an intense look of satisfaction on her face.

"What have you learned from all that?" Dr. Gilbert asked.

"Simply put, I've decided _not_ to let this happen to me. Whatever it takes, I'm going to be a success. Mom graduated high school and got married less than a year later. She never even started working until dad was laid off, but I'm going to make my own chances. I'm going to work hard, go to college and get a good job. I sound like my father talking, or a high school guidance counselor, but it's true. I'm going to learn how the world of money works and play the game like a pro, but honestly. That way, when I die, I'll have something _real_ , something _honest_ to pass on to...whomever."

"That's a really healthy attitude," Dr. Gilbert said. "I think you're making excellent progress. And I can't tell you how happy I am to hear that you want to go to college. You'll be living the examined life, Marilyn. Actually, I think you're off to a pretty good start right now."

Marilyn nodded. Dr. Gilbert scooted her chair forward a bit and said, softly, "have you stopped cutting yourself?"

The words hung there for a bit and she grew concerned that Marilyn was trying to recall a rehearsed answer. Despite the decreased distance between them, Dr. Gilbert still leaned forward in her chair, looking at Marilyn's pupil response, noting her breathing patterns, checking for any signs that Marilyn was trying to deceive her.

"You knew?" Marilyn whispered, her brow wrinkled.

"Not just me. Your aunt knew, too." She said it sadly, but it still had an air of authority to it.

Marilyn rolled up her shirt sleeves to show Dr. Gilbert her scars. She ran her hands over them and there was pain in the memory, and it made its way into her face. She felt intensely vulnerable and yet, somehow, completely safe.

"No, no more cutting. And I have you to thank for that. It's strange, but I didn't think I needed to see a doctor to help me sleep. I thought it was all just something that would go away eventually, like a cold. I guess my aunt thought the same thing. But those pills...it's amazing how much sleep helped me. I was finally able to think clearly, about the things you mentioned. In fact, I was able to think clearly enough to realize I _hadn't_ been thinking clearly since my parents died. And I didn't want to cut myself after that. I think I was just doing it to feel _something._ And figuring that out helped me realize that my life isn't over, even without my parents and without Jason."

She smiled and added "I wrote him a letter last week. He should have it by now, I think."

* * *

Jason read Marilyn's letter three times, and each time he felt a surge of hope well up in him until he was in tears. All the uncertainty that he had felt about their future was gone. Here in one letter was all the things he wanted her to tell him: her feelings about her parents' murders, how she was getting along with her aunt and uncle, what her plans were for the future, and especially, how she felt about _him._ There was love on every page, in every turn of phrase and in every wistful plea. He checked the time; it was 4:25, meaning 7:25 in New York. Late enough for Marilyn to have finished dinner and early enough that she wouldn't be in bed.

* * *

Beckett helped her father into the car. "Three days clean and sober," he announced proudly.

"Definitely a good start," she replied. "I'm willing to bet those three days will be harder than the entire month at the clinic."

 _The clinic_. Jim Beckett winced just hearing the words. He was a man who prided himself on his self-control, and here he was, so out of control he was being driven to a clinic called _Horizons of New York_ by his daughter. "You have to get help from trained professionals," she had said when she told him about her plan. "And this clinic comes highly recommended."

He relented, but not before putting up a fight. "I can stop, Kate," he pleaded. "I've just been drinking because I miss your mom so much. And now that you're back home, I can stop. Give me a week. Please. Just a week."

She gave him two, and things only got worse. The last straw was when she found him passed out on the bathroom floor. He hadn't reached the toilet bowl in time, and most of the vomit was under him. She helped him to bed can cleaned up the mess. The next morning, when he staggered into the kitchen and reached for the refrigerator door to get a beer, there was a photograph of him lying in his own puke, oblivious to the world. He agreed to rehab that very moment.

The drive upstate was long and beautiful, and although there was plenty to talk about, neither of them had anything to say, so they kept their conversation to small talk, baseball, jazz and NYU. And when they arrived at the clinic, their parting was short and sweet.

"I'll call you every day," Kate said. "Take care of yourself, dad."

"I will, Kate. I promise. And thank you."

* * *

"Marilyn?" Jason said, his voice saturated with emotion.

"Hi Jason," she said. "It's good to hear your voice again, sweetheart."

"I got your letter. I read it again and again. I'm so happy that you're doing better."

"Then you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive. I realized when I read you letter that I hadn't fully appreciated what you were going through. I do now. And I'm so sorry. It was so much worse for you than I imagined."

"I was afraid that you had moved on and found another girlfriend. An older girl, a blonde California beach girl with henna tattoos and beads in her hair who drives a Volkswagen convertible."

He laughed. "There are plenty of those," he said, "but I don't love any of them. I only love you."

"And I only love you, sweetheart. For all time."

* * *

 _January 30, 2001_

"I hate lawyer's offices," Marilyn said with a malevolent tone. "I wish I knew why we had to come here. Why didn't that letter tell us what this is about? Then I could have made an _informed_ decision to stay home."

Katherine smiled. Marilyn had been living with her and Boyd for over a year and this was the first time she had referred to their house as 'home'.

"If we had stayed home," Boyd said, "then the lawyer wouldn't get paid. With these guys, it's all about 'billable hours.'"

The lawyer entered and Marilyn couldn't help but scowl at her. "I'm Christina Armstrong," she said, and she shook everyone's hand. "Now, let's get started, shall we?"

"Get started with what?" Marilyn asked.

"With the reading of Mr. Singletary's will."

She said it simply, as though it was something they all should have known. There was silence for a few seconds before Katherine said "we were under the impression that he didn't leave a will. And if he did, why did it take so long for it to be discovered? Eric died over a year ago."

"No one knew about it," Armstrong said. "It was filed with a different attorney than the one Mrs. Singletary used for her will and there was no copy of it in his personal possessions. It was in a kind of legal limbo because the lawyer he used, William Bork, died about a week before Mr. Singletary. It took a long time for things to be researched and settled. My firm was chosen by the judge to handle the will _pro bono_."

"What's that mean?" Marilyn asked.

"Free of charge. You see, Marilyn, I know what happened to your parents and it was decided that you didn't need any more hardship in your life. My firm was assigned to your case because we take a certain amount of cases pro bono and the judge knew that. Of course, that was before we understood the ramifications of what it contained. But I should just read it now, OK?"

"Ramifications?" Marilyn said under her breath. But she and her aunt and uncle nodded and the lawyer began. It opened with the usual declarations about sound mind and body and moved into a few things that meant nothing since Sandra had also died.

"And to my daughter Marilyn," Armstrong read, "I leave her the trust fund that I opened for her when she was born, to be used as she sees fit upon reaching her eighteenth birthday."

Marilyn raised her eyebrows. "A trust fund? From my dad?" She found it difficult to believe that a man who robbed people on the street and stole from his own family had any money to put aside.

"As it says, he opened it when you were born. He added to it until 1997, but, strangely enough, Atlantic Equity has continued to contribute to it since."

"That's the firm my father used to work for," Marilyn said.

"Right. But he was forced to resign. You see, he was a whistleblower, Marilyn. As an executive vice-president, he was aware of things that happened at the highest levels of the firm. Illegal things. He turned over documents to the district attorney and the Securities and Exchange Commission, documents that showed that Atlantic Equity was stealing from their own clients. And just so you know, your father did nothing wrong himself. Thanks to his efforts the firm was found guilty and fined $450 million. But that fine was part of a plea agreement that Atlantic Equity cut with the government, so they could avoid a much larger penalty and would not have to publicly admit guilt. Your father was also put under a gag order, meaning he wasn't allowed to talk about it. It was part of the deal. After that, there was no way he could continue working there. But he negotiated a clever severance package. He took only half of what he was entitled to, with the caveat that Atlantic Equity would continue to add 10% to the trust every year on your birthday until you turned 21. It was risky for him to divert his severance like that—the word was out about him, and he had to know he'd never get another job on Wall Street. But he did it for you, Marilyn. You should be proud of that."

"I am," Marilyn whispered as she wiped away a tear.

"So the amount of your trust fund as of right now is just over $217,000."

END OF PART TWO


	23. Chapter 23

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Twenty-Three_

 _Graduations_

 _PART THREE_

" _In life, you make the small decisions with your head and the big decisions with your heart."_ —Omid Kordestani

 _June 4, 2004_

"I can't believe we're graduating on the same day," Marilyn said. "This is so cool."

"It would be even better if we were doing it from the same school," Jason replied.

Neither of them said anything for a minute. Jason still called once a month, and the letters, once Marilyn began writing them, never slowed, but the time they had spent apart—four years now— made every conversation seem as though they were just starting to get acquainted again. They found themselves resorting to small talk, like nervous teenagers on a perpetual first date.

"Did you get that job at the Met?" Jason asked hopefully.

"Nope," Marilyn said. "It probably went to the kid of some wealthy donor. Typical. It's all about who you know. And you? Working at Nabisco again this summer?"

"Oh yeah. They always need their wastebaskets emptied and supply cabinets stocked. They even started a pool about me. You know, like a 'guess when the boss has her baby' sort of thing, but with toner cartridges. But what does that say about me otherwise? If it's 'all who you know' and I know a senior VP, why am I just an office boy?"

Marilyn felt awful until Jason began laughing. Then the silence set in again.

"Are you nervous?" Marilyn finally asked.

"About what?"

"College. USC. The rest of your life."

"Not really, no. It's not like I'm leaving home and moving to some strange city."

"Like New York?"

Jason sensed resentment in her tone; she said it more like an accusation than an observation. It didn't surprise him, but it did unnerve him a bit and he felt his face growing warm. He steeled his courage and decided to play hardball.

"Marilyn, I told you before, this goes both ways," he said firmly. "Yes, I could have applied to colleges in New York, but you could have applied to colleges in L.A., too. We both did what we thought was right. I chose USC for drama and you chose NYU."

"For economics," she said indifferently. "For finance."

"So you'll become a Wall Street titan and, with any luck, I'll get a play in New York. Maybe even Broadway. We'll be together again, but on _our_ terms." He said it with as much optimism as he could muster, but Marilyn wasn't convinced.

"Yeah," she said. "I can't wait."

The conversation was then promptly over.

* * *

The auditorium was packed, but that didn't keep Beckett from fruitlessly scanning the crowd for her father as she walked to her seat to the tune of _Pomp and Circumstance._ The ceremony started on time, 12 p.m. and it had the usual allotment of boring speakers eager to share sage advice for the graduates. The last of them, professor Horace Buckley, B.A. Harvard, 1932, PhD Columbia, 1938, had been droning on about the history of Western ethics for nearly an hour. His voice was soft and nasal and the technicians had tried to make up for it by amplifying the microphone far beyond reason, causing an acute, booming echo. Beckett's ears began to ring and she snorted her disapproval, being rewarded with several sympathetic glances from fellow graduates who were suffering equally.

"Daniel, this is the longest commencement speech of all time," she said to the man sitting to her left. "I think I'm going to need oxygen soon."

"I know what you mean," Daniel replied. "He seems intent on covering every day in Kant's life. Is this really necessary?"

"No, not at all, which explains why they're doing it."

She scanned the crowd again, still unable to pick out her father. Buckley made a joke about the ethical implications of free will in a Godless universe that no one understood and the smile with which he delivered the joke drooped instantly to a frown as the auditorium remained silent. He decided to skip his Heidegger parable and wrap it up.

"And so," Buckley said, "always remember that ethics are not only your responsibility, they're the key to a productive and successful career. Thank you."

A handful of people applauded, more from relief and a desire to jump start their circulations than gratitude. Buckley sheepishly made his way to his seat and the next speaker took his place at the podium and exhaled deeply.

"Thank you, Professor Buckley. You have given the graduates excellent advice, and I'm sure they'll all take it to heart. So, that brings us to the reason you're all here. No speech this time, let's just get started."

A collective sigh of relief rippled through the auditorium. The first block of graduates stood and made their way toward the stage as camera flashes began going off every second or two.

"Well, this is it," Daniel said.

" _Alexander_ ," came the speaker's voice, and they all moved forward a few steps.

"Thank goodness," Beckett said. "There were times I thought I'd never make it this far."

" _Andrews_."

"That reminds me, Kate. Now that I've graduated, my best friend owes me a case of Glenlivet single malt. Want to stop by the bar with me and pick it up?"

"Can't. I have plans with my dad tonight, and drinking won't be part of it."

Daniel nodded.

" _Bartholomew._ "

"Looks like you're next," Daniel said, and Beckett broke into a smile.

" _Officer Kate Beckett._ "

Kate didn't need to look for her father in the crowd now. She could hear him.

* * *

"Valedictorian!" Castle said through a smile, and he hugged Alexis. "Have you been practicing your speech?"

"I have," Alexis replied. "And I'm ready to crush it."

The phone rang and Martha picked it up. "It's for you," she said, and Alexis grabbed the phone and walked away. A short, clipped conversation followed, and Castle frowned.

"Meredith?" he said, and Martha nodded.

The door to Alexis' room slammed. Before Castle could react, it opened again. Alexis emerged wearing her cap and gown and a scowl. Her eyes were moist and she wiped them with her hand. She put her arms around Castle and looked at the ground.

"Hey," he said, "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Alexis said. "It's better this way. She's never been here for me before so why should this time be any different? Besides, now I can stop wasting my time waiting for her to show up."

Martha decided to act quickly. "Kate," she said, "how about taking a picture now that the Valedictorian is ready to go?"

"Happy to," Beckett said. She picked up Castle's camera, shooed him away when he tried to mansplain the proper way to use it, and got the shot.

"And one with you, Kate," Alexis said.

The rest of the day passed quickly, and before Castle knew it, Alexis was giving her speech. She thanked Castle, of course, and Martha and even Beckett "for bringing stability to all our lives and making sure my daredevil father stays safe."

When it was over, Castle cheered so loudly that most of the audience and half the graduates turned to look at him, but he didn't care. He had always been proud of Alexis, but this was her crowning achievement so far, and he made sure she, and everyone else, knew it.

* * *

Marilyn's graduation was a small ceremony as her high school only had 59 graduates. As such, Katherine and Boyd had no trouble picking her out.

"She's nervous," Boyd said. "Fidgeting."

"I was nervous too, when I graduated," Katherine said. "I know it's awfully cliché, but this really is the beginning of the rest of her life."

Marilyn _was_ nervous. She hadn't made friends in high school, though there were plenty to be had if she had simply tried. Instead she had spent the past four years planning for every facet of the next stage of her life. Pragmatism became her mantra. The experience of her parents' deaths had changed her, re-wired her brain in a sense. She became obsessed with the idea of notending up with the same fate, and everything she did was toward that end. Where her mother had no formal education beyond high school, Marilyn became a grind. She spent hours in the library or her room, studying, doing extra work, reading ahead. She took advanced placement courses and aced them. On the first day of junior year, she went into college planning mode, using the library, the Internet, catalogs, even talking to her teachers and the school counselor. When she chose NYU, it had won out over Columbia, Cornell and Penn, all of which had accepted her.

She also became determined to be financially independent. She tracked every penny, worked full-time in summer and part-time after school and even opened a 401(k). She especially scrutinized her love life. Her correspondence with Jason was still as loving as ever, but her letters concealed a hard edge that she had cultivated over the years. She no longer simply assumed that she and Jason would marry and live a charmed life; surely her parents had assumed the same thing and where had it gotten them? But she loved Jason as much as ever, even as she began to realize they might not end up together at all and as graduation crept closer, she came to a decision that resulted in her sitting in a chair on the football field with her knees knocking and her hands shaking, waiting to get her diploma.

The ceremony was short and perfunctory. When it was over, Marilyn took Katherine and Boyd aside.

"OK, I'm eighteen and I've graduated," she said after hugs and tears. "And I want to take a small amount of my trust fund and make a short trip to Los Angeles. A week is all. I haven't seen Jason in years now, and I have to do this. I have to remind him that I'm still part of his life. You understand, don't you?"

Katherine and Boyd exchanged glances. Then Katherine turned to Marilyn.

"We do understand, and we trust you," she said. "You've grown so much since... _that_ _awful_ _night_." She hugged Marilyn and said "have a good time and be _safe_."


	24. Chapter 24

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Twenty-Four_

 _California, Part One_

 _Arrival_

" _Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden, when the flowers are dead." —_ Oscar Wilde

 _June 21, 2004_

"Will you look at the size of that plane?" Boyd said as Marilyn prepared to walk through the metal detector. "A 747. She's a real beaut." He whistled as though he was bringing the family to Mount Rushmore and wanted them to be as impressed as he was.

 _Men always think they have to say something about the plane,_ Katherine thought, and she tried to subconsciously send that to Marilyn. It may have worked; they smiled in unison and shared a chuckle. Then Marilyn's flight was called to begin boarding and she felt a surge of hope, or maybe hormones, race through her body.

"Well, this is it," she said.

"We'll be back to get you next Wednesday," Boyd said. Katherine was too emotional to speak so she simply grabbed Marilyn in a bear hug.

Marilyn walked through the metal detector and into the boarding area. She turned around to look at her aunt and uncle and waved to them. They were holding hands and waving back and, for the first time, Marilyn thought of them as her de facto parents. She hadn't forgotten her real parents, of course, but she realized she might not be on her way to California were it not for her aunt and uncle.

And then she was on the plane.

It was her first flight and she was unprepared for the sheer acceleration as the jet began its take off. The ascent was smooth and rapid, though they were barely in the air before banking toward the water and Marilyn felt a tinge of fear shoot through her. But the plane straightened out and began to climb, and in just a few minutes, as they burst through the clouds, she was breathless. It was so beautiful, so liberating being untethered from the world. She had never thought of what it must be like to be a bird, but now she couldn't think of anything else.

It wasn't long before the grandeur wore off and her mind turned to other things. She had a cup of coffee but no breakfast and settled in to read _The Leviathan._ She had been wearing glasses for a year now, and the book was intimidating even for a seasoned reader of philosophy. She flipped back and forth between the prose and the glossary and finally she took off her glasses, pinched the bridge of her nose and settled down to take a nap. She had just closed the book when she spied two boys leaning over the empty seats to her left. They seemed a bit younger than she, meaning they probably had parents on the plane somewhere. Not knowing what else to do, she smiled and closed her eyes.

There was a small jolt of turbulence and Marilyn opened her eyes. Her admirers were still there, ogling away. She raised her eyebrows in a 'what do you want?' gesture.

The bolder of the two spoke first. "You have really pretty eyes," he said. He seemed to be waiting for his accomplice to speak up, so he elbowed him to move things along.

"And I really like your hair," said his partner. "It's like... _fire_." He raised his hand dramatically and tossed his head as though he was doing Shakespeare. His cohort snickered and looked at Marilyn for her reaction.

"Yes," Marilyn said, lowering the pitch of her voice as much as she could, "it _does_ look like fire. That's because if you get any closer, you're going to get burned."

She heard a laugh from the seat in front of her. The boys, their faces now as red as Marilyn's hair, decided to aim their courtship rituals in another direction and fled.

* * *

Marilyn finally succeeded in getting to sleep and was surprised when a flight attendant tapped her on the shoulder.

"We're getting ready to land," he said. "You need to put your seat back and tray table..."

"Yep," Marilyn said, not wanting to hear the rest of the speech.

And then she was on the ground.

LAX airport was crowded, but not as much as JFK. Jason had promised to be waiting for Marilyn at the gate. She spied a line of people holding signs with names on them; limo drivers, mostly, with a smattering of non-uniformed people, but none of the signs said _Marilyn Singletary._

 _Ah well_ , she thought, _Jason wouldn't be holding up a sign for me anyway. I haven't changed that much in four years._

And then she saw someone standing slightly separate from everyone else. _There he is_ , she thought. _Only Jason would obscure his face with a bouquet of irises._

* * *

"Unbelievable," Alexis said. "Seventy-four degrees in June and not a cloud in the sky."

"Have you met Tim Cook yet?" Castle said, cutting straight to the chase.

"Of course. He met us at the airport. Drove us to the Apple campus, too. Nicest guy I've ever met."

Castle let that sink in for a moment. "Very funny," he said. "You start Monday, right?"

"Yeah, so we have the weekend to get a feel for the area. And before I forget, Jenny told me to be sure to thank you for getting this apartment for us. She wants to pay rent, but I told her you wouldn't accept it."

"Hey, I was happy to. Least I could do for a couple of emerging business moguls."

"Interns, daddy."

"Hey, you have to start somewhere. Agatha Christie was an intern at a coal mine in Staffordshire in 1913. She said it formed the basis for her novel _Coal 'n' Oscopy_ and..." He broke off at the sound of Alexis sighing. "Not buying it, huh?"

"Not even when I was a little girl. Now, Ihate to do this to you, but I have to go. A few of the guys are having a party tonight at a house they're sharing and Jenny decided to rent a car. The party is for interns only, so I'll be sure to meet a lot of people. You know, make some contacts that could be valuable later in my career."

"Great idea," Castle said. "But will there be any security there?"

"I don't know, but why would there be? Don't worry. No one is going to do anything stupid right before we start. This is too valuable an experience to jeopardize. We're all in this for the same thing."

Castle grinned. "Yes, of course. Have fun at the party. And call me Monday night. I want to hear about your first day as a big-time intern at Apple."

* * *

Marilyn and Jason kissed all the way to the parking lot. They hadn't said a thing to each other yet, and Marilyn decided to break the conversational ice.

"I'll have the alfalfa sprouts and a plate of mashed yeast," she said.

"What?" Jason laughed.

"You haven't been watching _Gilmore Girls_ have you? Last season Jess said it when he first got to California. Of course, he stole that from Woody Allen in _Annie Hall,_ though maybe 'homage' is the proper term."

"Jess, right. You mentioned him one or two...thousand times."

They piled into Jason's Jeep Wrangler and held hands up Highway 1. Jason had taken the top off and Marilyn loved the feeling of the wind in her hair at sixty miles an hour.

"Cool car," she said. "And Lorelai Gilmore drives one."

Jason didn't pick up on the reference. "My dad got it for me. He had the naive thought that I'd want to go off-roading. He still thinks I lack testosterone, as though driving a Jeep would somehow man me up or something. But I actually love this machine because it has both a hard top and a soft top, so it's flexible. And don't tell him, but I _have_ gone off-roading on it a couple of times. Had fun, too."

Something about the word _testosterone_ made Marilyn snicker and she felt like a schoolgirl again. She ignored it, reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of paper.

"The Mar Pacifica on Ocean Avenue and Pico Boulevard," she said. "It's supposed to be a pretty decent hotel. At least according to expedia dot com."

"No sweat," Jason replied. "We'll be there in no time."

The drive was typical of L.A.; short bursts of decent speed followed by continual slow downs at every on-ramp as more cars piled onto roads designed for half the actual traffic. Marilyn was glad she lived in New York and could take public transit everywhere; the thought of negotiating around so many other cars was daunting. It kept her from getting, or even wanting a driver's license. She kept a close eye out on the surroundings, making comparisons and contrasts between L.A. and home.

"Los Angeles looks like Atlantic City," she observed. "I keep thinking I'm going to see one of Donald Trump's ridiculous casinos."

"Yeah, maybe this part does. But you'll forget about that comparison real soon."

They reached the hotel a few minutes later. Marilyn checked in and Jason carried her bags to her room. She put her flowers in a vase, added water and put them on the table. Then she sized up the rest of the room and took a few photos.

"I have to do this," Marilyn said as she opened her suitcase, "because aunt Katherine is a stickler for keeping my room clean and I feel if I don't unpack right away, she'll somehow know it when I get back home."

"Sure, makes sense," Jason said half-seriously. "I'll help you."

They were finished in no time. "OK," Marilyn said, "now that that's done, what's next?"

She stood in front of Jason and held his hands. They both slowly turned their gaze toward the bed. Jason cleared his throat.

"I have a surprise planned," he said quickly. Then he dashed for the door pulling Marilyn along with him and they both internalized a sigh of relief.

* * *

"First things first," Jason said in the parking lot. "I've got to get something to eat. Are you hungry?"

"Famished. I didn't have breakfast on the plane because I wanted to eat with you. Where shall we go?"

"Only one place _to_ go, Marilyn. In-N-Out Burger."

"I've heard of that," Marilyn said. "It's supposed to be great."

"It's an institution. Trust me, my carnivorous sweetheart, you'll love it. And there's one back in Marina Del Rey, too. We actually drove right by it. It's early enough so the line shouldn't be _too_ long."

It was; in fact it reminded Marilyn of the wait to ride the Cyclone at Coney Island in the middle of July. It wound past the restaurant proper and into the parking lot, but it snaked along at a surprisingly rapid pace considering the traffic snarls everywhere else in Los Angeles. Marilyn squinted and leaned forward in her seat. She was trying to read a bumper sticker on the car in front of them so she put her glasses on and when she realized what it said, she laughed.

"Looks like they took an 'IN-N-OUT BURGER' sticker and removed the b and the second r." She laughed again. "IN-N-OUT URGE. Oh, that's hilarious."

"Yep," Jason said. "Lots of people do that. It's funny the first hundred times."

 _IN-N-OUT URGE._

Marilyn said it under her breath. She felt strange again, as she had when Jason said _testosterone_. This was the second overtly sexual thing she had encountered in less than an hour in California. She had thought about the two of them together, of course, and she was sure Jason had, too, but they had never discussed it. When Jason rushed them out of her hotel room, she was certain it was because he was apprehensive, even scared about what would happen if they stayed in there too long. But she was, too. She loved him, though, and it wasn't like they were rushing into anything. They were legally of age, so there would be no arrests. She laughed as she thought that and Jason reflexively laughed, too. But legality aside, it didn't mean it was going to happen, or that it _should._ Despite her misgivings, she had decided to be prepared for anything and she had brought a box of condoms with her.

 _If anything **does** happen_, she thought, _he's on his own with those rubbers. No way I'm helping him._

They continued to move forward until the menu was in sight.

"I'll just have whatever you're having," Marilyn said. "I trust you. We're pretty simpatico, food-wise."

"Agreed, but to tell you the truth, this will be the first time I've eaten meat all year. Normally I'd have a peanut butter and banana sandwich on sprouted wheat bread with honey and granola."

"Are you serious?" Marilyn laughed. "Isn't that a little cliché, even for California? Or were Woody and Jess right?"

"Everyone in drama is a vegetarian. I tried it and actually liked it. I don't miss meat, but I'm not a committed vegetarian and with you here it's time to break my fast. And I could hardly eat a PB and B with a girl who practically lives on the pastrami at Katz's Deli."

They pulled up to the window. "We'll have two double-doubles, two fries animal style and two Neapolitan shakes," Jason said. After a couple more minutes waiting, they were on their way.

"How about we eat on the beach?" Marilyn suggested.

"Great idea," Jason said.

A few minutes later they parked near Venice beach. Jason brought along a towel that he kept in the Jeep and spread it on the ground. The sand was hot beneath them, but tolerable. The waves swept in and sloshed out, and the rhythmic sound they made seemed lazy and tranquil and it made Marilyn feel sleepy. The sun was bright, but it immediately dimmed as a few dark clouds passed in front of it. A colony of seagulls cawed overhead. There were a few other beachgoers, but it was hardly crowded, and Jason had picked a spot far enough away that neither he nor Marilyn could see the Arnold Schwarzenegger wannabes lifting weights on "Muscle Beach."

They finished eating, to Marilyn's rave review. Then Jason scooted forward until their faces were a few inches apart.

"I have something of a confession," he said, smiling.

* * *

The party started at eight, but Alexis insisted they not arrive until nine. Jenny had rented a Ford sedan.

"Silicon Valley is like one big city," Alexis said. "Cupertino, Sunnyvale, Mountain View, Santa Clara, San Jose...they all seem to flow into each other. You can't tell where one ends and the other begins."

"The party is on Tasman Drive," Jenny said. "The directions say it's about a mile past the 49ers' stadium."

They arrived at 9:10. Their first impression was that there were six men for every woman. Jenny seemed eager to confirm that by immediately drawing a crowd of men around her and flirting with all of them.

"Don't forget, you're driving," Alexis said, "so stay sober."

Jenny laughed. "Hey, don't worry about me. I wasn't the one who got hammered after we lost the Yale game."

There was a small group of women across the room looking bored. Alexis decided to introduce herself.

"Your last name is Castle?" one of them said. "As in Rick Castle, the writer?"

"No relation," Alexis said. She had learned in her three years at Columbia that not talking about her dad made it easier to make friends.

"I'm Jessica. So, Alexis, did you get your department assignment yet?"

"Yes. I'll be in Macbook external design, helping the people who decide what the new laptops will look like. Yourself?"

"Accounts receivable. It's my dream assignment. I'm hoping it will make the difference on my application to Stanford business school."

Alexis made small talk for a while longer. She was just about to look for some food when someone shouted "laser tag! Men versus women!"

The fools didn't know what hit them. An hour later, Alexis was standing alone in the middle of the room, her foot perched atop her last victim in what she called _The Vanquisher's Pose._ She glanced at Jenny who was drinking from a small glass with ice. She walked over, her hands held above her head in victory.

"Relax, Castle, it's just root beer," Jenny said. Alexis nodded and walked away.

* * *

"A confession?" Marilyn asked. "Do tell."

"OK," Jason said. "Sometimes I think about the rest of our lives. I see us together again in New York, sharing our lives and one day getting married. Having a child or two. Growing older." He stopped and his eyes narrowed. "Is that weird?"

Marilyn shook her head. "Of course not. And I think about it too, Jason. Of course I do. Honestly, I'd feel bad if you _didn't_ think about it."

"Even the bit about having children?"

Another sexual reference, if only obliquely. Marilyn, not wanting to continue down this path yet, decided to pivot.

"Even that. It's natural, Jason, the most natural feeling in the world, I think. But I have other thoughts, too. Ones that are more...defensive than that. Kind of self-preservation thoughts, if you will."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you remember when I told you about my father? How he gave up his career to turn in his bosses who were stealing from their own clients?"

They had that conversation about a week after Marilyn learned the truth. It took longer than it should have, as Marilyn hadn't been able to keep her emotions in check, so explaining it was more painful than she anticipated. But that was years ago, and now, with time and closure behind her, the words came easily.

"OK, so what I mean is that I want to be romantic of course, but pragmatic, too. I learned two things from my parents' deaths: how much I truly loved them and how I _don't_ want to end up like them. For a long time I hated my father because I didn't understand him. But he was a philosopher, Jason—he had a moral code and he lived by it. He sacrificed his career by choosing to act honestly. I'm certain he didn't expect things to end up the way they did, and for all I know, he may have regretted it. But I think that doing the right thing is sometimes so hard that it can destroy a person. Have you ever read Hemingway's _The Old Man and the Sea_? He said 'but man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated.' And I think that's what happened to my father. It was a noble sacrifice, in a way. He gave up his own life to teach me about the kind of man he was. He wasn't defeated, not as long as I took his lesson to heart. But he was destroyed, and he destroyed my mother along with him."

She turned away and looked up at the sky, searching for what to say next. The sun warmed her face and she felt Jason's hands on hers.

"And that," she continued, "is what made me want to go to college to learn about finance and economics. I want to show him—wherever he is—that his sacrifice wasn't lost on me. I want to follow in his footsteps and continue his legacy, but I don't want it to destroy _me_. Because if that happened, if I was destroyed, I'd lose you, too. And I just can't let that happen, Jason. I love you too much to let that happen."

They kissed, and for a moment, Marilyn wanted them to get back in the Jeep and go straight to her hotel. It frightened her, and she pushed Jason away.

"Sorry," she said. "I guess that turned out to be more my confession than yours."

Jason shook his head. "Don't be."

* * *

Alexis paraded around the room doing her victory dance for a bit and accepting the congratulations of every woman at the party like Caesar returning to Rome. She introduced herself to a few other interns, but they all spoke the same small talk and nothing else interesting was happening. She looked around for Jenny, intending to broach the subject of calling it a night. She wasn't in the living room or the kitchen. A few people had gathered outside where another keg had been tapped, but Jenny wasn't there, either, fortunately.

Alexis began to panic. Years of seeing the worst of people in New York had conditioned her to expect the same wherever she was. Even if she was overreacting it was merely a defense mechanism, a way to be on the safe side. When she had searched everywhere else, she headed for the bedrooms, her father's voice about security ringing in her ears.

 _Why didn't I start there?_ she thought. _If there was something in Jenny's drink, and she's..._

The first bedroom was empty except for a bed covered with coats. She knocked on the door of the master bedroom and when no one answered, she went in.

Jenny was on the bed, stripped to her underwear and out cold. Alexis dashed to her and lifted her head. There was no response. She patted Jenny's cheeks a few times, but again nothing happened. Alexis frantically grabbed her phone from her purse and was just about to dial when the bathroom door opened and an intern from a nearby school staggered drunkenly into the room.

"Hey, are you ready?" he said before he noticed Alexis.

She put aside her rage and dialed 911. "I need an ambulance," she cried.

"Are you stupid or something?" the student slurred. "Are you trying to get me arrested? This is consensual, for Christ's sake!"

"She's unconscious, asshole!"

Alexis quickly gave the address to the 911 operator. The creep leaned forward and tried to grab the phone but she ducked out of the way. He fell to the floor, swearing loudly.

"Please hurry!" Alexis shouted. "My friend is passed out. I think she was given a roofie!"

She stood and turned around. The would-be rapist was standing in front of her, his fist held menacingly over his head. Alexis kicked him in the testicles as hard as she could. He doubled over in pain and staggered out of the bedroom. Alexis quickly locked the door and continued to stand guard over her friend.

* * *

"Time for your surprise, Marilyn," Jason said. "It's just up the 405."

"Are we going to Beverly Hills?" Marilyn asked as she spied the signs. "Do you want me to be your Ellie May?" She said it with a grin that disappeared when she realized Jason had no knowledge of _The Beverly Hillbillies_. Clearly his cultural education was lacking, despite the hours spent in museums.

"Be patient, please. You'll know soon enough."

The next time Jason glanced over, Marilyn was practically jumping out of her seat.

"Two and a half miles," Jason said. "We're nearly there. Try not to explode or anything."

And then they _were_ there.

The Getty Center, home to The Getty Museum, which housed, among other things, the more famous version of Vincent Van Gogh's _Irises._


	25. Chapter 25

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Twenty-five_

 _California, Part Two_

 _Raindrops_

" _Some people feel the rain; others just get wet." —_ Roger Miller

The phone rang just after two A.M, waking both Castle and Beckett.

"Castle here."

"Dad?" Alexis cried. "Daddy?"

He was instantly wide awake. "Alexis, what is it? What's wrong?" Beckett heard the panic in his voice and wrapped her arms around him.

"It's Jenny. She's unconscious, passed out on the bed."

"Alexis, you have to call 911 right away!"

"I did. I'm just waiting for the ambulance to arrive."

"What happened? Did she hit her head?"

"No. I think she was roofied, Dad. Some bastard was about to rape her, but I kicked him in the balls and he left."

 _The party._

"Are you OK?" Castle asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"Yes, I'm fine. But you have to call Jenny's parents. You have to tell them what happened."

"I will, sweetie. Right away."

Alexis heard a voice shout "out of the way!" and the door was kicked open a few seconds later.

"Dad, the paramedics are here. I'll call you later, OK?"

She hung up before Castle could answer. He took a deep breath and explained things to Beckett before calling Jenny's parents.

* * *

 _June 21, 2004, continued_

Entrance to The Getty Museum was free, and Jason took Marilyn aside the moment they entered. He said he wanted to take his time, starting with the antiquities, but Marilyn was having none of it.

"Ever since that day you first took me to the Met," she said, "I've learned all I can about van Gogh. And the more I learned, the more I realized that there's three places in the world I want to visit. One is the van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. This is another. And if you think I'm stopping to look at anything before _Irises_ you couldn't be more wrong."

"I figured as much," Jason said playfully. "I was just tweaking you a little bit."

They had only walked a few yards when Jason stopped and turned to face Marilyn, putting his hands on her shoulders.

"Wait a minute...what's the third place?"

"Right here," she said. "And if I had to number them, this would be number one."

"OK, I'm officially confused. The Getty is the first _and_ the third?"

"The Getty isn't the first, Los Angeles is. You see, the first might change, and it might go away altogether. In fact, I'm hoping it does."

She leaned in and said "as long as we're apart, the first place I want to visit is wherever you are." She kissed him on the cheek and took his hand and they continued on their way.

* * *

The paramedics secured Jenny to a stretcher and hurried out of the bedroom with Alexis close behind. There was a group of partygoers in a circle and they turned to watch. The circle parted and Alexis saw a man on the ground, clad only in his underwear. He had his hands between his legs and was whimpering.

"You got him good, Alexis," Jessica said. "And don't worry, we'll take it from here. The cops are on the way."

Alexis breathed a sigh of relief. She piled into the ambulance and one of the paramedics immediately began to take Jenny's blood pressure.

"The closest hospital is Kaiser on Lawrence and Homestead," he said. "We'll be there in less than ten minutes."

He pounded the side of the ambulance, giving the signal to the driver to go. The siren blasted immediately, startling Alexis. She looked at Jenny. Her face was pale and clammy and her breathing was slow and irregular.

"Is she going to be all right?" Alexis asked.

"Don't worry," said the paramedic. "If it's Rohypnol, and that's the most common roofie, she'll be OK. Our job is to keep her stable and let the doctors figure it out."

Something about the way he said _she'll be OK_ resonated strangely with Alexis. She sensed he was holding something back, but she knew if he was, he wouldn't tell her. She wasn't even family; what could he really tell her without a liability waiver? And what if it wasn't Rohypnol? There must be a hundred things that could make a person pass out. It could be something obscure, and the doctors might not figure it out before...

Alexis covered her face with her hands. _How could we have been so stupid?_ _We're here for an internship. We should have been all business. We should have known this 'party' wasn't really about making friends. We have each other; everyone else is just a co-worker, a distraction, a deviation from the plan._

She began to wonder if the internship was over before it began. As she watched Jenny lay there helpless, her life very much in the balance, she knew it was.

The EMT was taking Jenny's blood pressure again when she opened her eyes. They were darting to and fro, like REM sleep but with open eyes, and she began to cough.

"That's a good sign," the EMT said.

* * *

As they moved swiftly through the museum, Jason became aware of a sensation that thrilled him. The closer they got to _Irises_ , the more Marilyn caressed his hand. It was as though she sensed the painting's presence, and she tensed her grip, loosened it, moved her fingers along his in a rhythm that was smoothly sensual. He thought he could feel her heartbeat as it pulsated against her fingers and her fingers pulsated against his own. He let out a deep breath and she looked at him and grinned.

They turned a corner and Marilyn forced them to stop. Somehow, she knew, it was near, and she had goose bumps as though a brisk winter wind had blown over her.

"There it is," Jason said.

It took Marilyn a few moments to realize she had stopped breathing. Jason pushed her along until she was standing right in front of it. Her eyes moved slowly from bottom to top and back, taking in every brush stroke, every splash of color, every twist and turn that said this painting was by Vincent van Gogh himself. He had touched that frame, touched that canvas, worked his genius into every square inch of it.

 _Irises._

More than anything else, Marilyn wanted to reach out and touch it, to feel the little mounds of paint against her skin, as though it would impart all the pain and anguish of Vincent's life. She wanted to absorb that pain, to feel what it was like to be van Gogh, to compare it to her own pain and bask in her triumph over it while lamenting van Gogh's failure to do the same. But it was protected by glass, of course, and even if it hadn't been, she would never have disrespected it like that. But she had thought many times over the years of what it would be like.

"What do you think?" Jason asked softly, as though he might break her concentration.

Marilyn began speaking, hesitatingly at first. But her impressions had been building for years, and when she finally seized upon them the floodgates opened. And as soon as she made her first point, Jason realized how much Marilyn had taken to art in general and van Gogh specifically. It had only been a few years since they had last been to a museum together, but her approach had matured beyond measure. She went over every inch of the canvas talking about the colors, the contrast, the subtle differences in hue, the single white iris, the marigolds in the upper left, the clumps of paint here and the drabs of paint there. She used sweeping hand gestures and spoke with a breathless exuberance and a silly grin that made Jason feel as though she was floating, a holographic museum tour guide. Her mannerisms were evocative of his mother, when she used to take him to the Met and show him Greek and African sculptures, paintings by Titian and Velázquez and photographs by Ansel Adams and Diane Arbus. When they first made the move to Los Angeles, this was the first place Patricia and he had visited together, and suddenly, with Marilyn at his side and art in the air, he felt as though he was floating, too.

* * *

 _Beep. Beep. Beep._

Alexis hated everything about hospital rooms. She hated the glow of computer readouts as they reduced Jenny's essence to some pixels. She hated the hissing of the machines that breathed for Jenny. She hated the bed and the hospital tray and the jello and the terrible gown Jenny had to wear. She hadn't been in a hospital room since her father had been found, and this brought it all back—the worry, the pain, the tears, the feeling that she might never see him again. She had never completely gotten over those feelings, and now she was living them anew, for another person she cared about.

 _It never ends_ , she thought, _you just have to experience it with other people._

"Miss?"

Alexis looked up and saw a nurse standing in front of her. She knew what was coming but still said "yes?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to leave. You're not family, and it's past visiting hours anyway."

Alexis nodded and left. She wandered around, looking for an exit, and when she finally found it, she took a deep breath of Silicon Valley air, sat on a bench and wept.

* * *

Marilyn handed her camera to a tour guide who took of picture of her and Jason in front of the painting. Then Marilyn said "I'm ready to see the rest of the museum."

"Are you sure?" Jason said. "The guys with the x-ray machine haven't shown up yet. You might miss something important."

"Very funny, Jason. What should we see next?"

"Definitely the grounds."

"Oh? They're that nice?"

"I don't know. But I need some fresh air and a cup of coffee."

She agreed. They each grabbed a cappuccino at a coffee cart and made their way outside. The day had grown overcast and a slight wind was picking up. It was muggy though, and foreboding. They sat at a table in view of some elegant marble statues.

"Enjoying Los Angeles?" Jason asked.

"Absolutely. IN-N-OUT, the Getty Museum, Irises, both real and imagined, and you. What more could a woman ask for?"

"Definitely money," Jason deadpanned. "Enough to buy a place here, with a view like this, or maybe something on the beach at Malibu with Jack Nicholson and Tom Hanks for neighbors."

"Are you saying you want to stay here?" Marilyn said, alarmed.

"Not necessarily. But I _have_ lived her for four years now, and I've come to think of it as home."

"But Broadway is in New York."

"Movies are here."

" _I'm_ in New York."

She said it louder than she intended. Her faced reddened and Jason grew a bit defensive.

"Hey, it's just an idea. The plan is still for me to move back there. Don't worry."

His tone was soothing and confident and Marilyn regretted being short with him. They kissed as a breeze blew Marilyn's hair across both their faces. Jason placed his hand on Marilyn's cheek; it was warm from the coffee and it felt reassuring; in warmth was security. She remembered _that night_ , and how cold their hands were. The contrast was a relief.

Jason glanced at the sky. "Maybe we'd better go back inside," he said. "It looks like it might rain."

Marilyn shook her head. "Stay here with me," she said, and they kissed again.

* * *

Alexis swiped her phone to pay the Uber bill, entered her apartment and dropped on the bed. She had just turned down the blankets when her phone beeped with a text message. She checked the time; it was 1:50—4:50 in New York.

 _Still awake?_

 _Yes_ , _but crazy tired. Can I call you in a few hours?_

 _Of course, sweetheart. And don't worry, I called Jenny's parents. We'll all be on the 10 AM United flight out of Newark._

Alexis set an alarm for six, dropped her phone and was asleep a few seconds later. She dreamed, and the images frightened her. That man, coming out of the bathroom, about to take advantage of Jenny, played over and over, shockingly, painfully.

She woke, shaking and perspiring.

 _What if I hadn't found her?_ she wondered. _What if I had gotten there 5 minutes later?_

The alarm rang and she called Castle immediately.

"We're already at the airport," he said. "Kate, too."

"I'm glad. I need you here. Both of you."

* * *

They strolled around the grounds, hand in hand, looking at the beautiful garden and enjoying the view of downtown L.A. from the hill on which the Getty center resided. It was surprisingly clear; the famous smog that Marilyn had grown up hearing about had been exaggerated. Jason looked up and frowned; it had grown darker as the clouds swelled with imminent rain and the wind had picked up, causing people all over the grounds to madly dash inside.

"Never mind them," Marilyn said. "There's nothing more romantic than a walk in the rain."

 _Except..._ she thought, as the first raindrops fell.


	26. Chapter 26

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Twenty-Six_

 _California, Part three_

 _We Need To Talk_

 _Love cannot make a home where lies and secrets sleep._ —Unknown

Alexis poured herself a bowl of cereal, but was in no mood to eat it and she ended up dumping the soggy mess into the disposal. She did, however, drink two cups of coffee in a stupor, unable to concentrate on anything but Jenny. Once the caffeine kicked in, she remembered that the rental car was still at that house where the party was.

 _Dad will just have to take it back to Hertz_ , she thought. She was about to leave when her phone rang. The caller ID just said _Apple._ She answered it and a woman was on the line.

"Alexis, this is Maria from Apple. I heard what happened at the party. Is Jenny OK?"

Alexis was relieved that Maria got right to the point. "Yeah," she said. "The doctor said that it was Rohypnol. She's at Kaiser hospital, and her parents are on the way. I had my dad call them."

"Thank goodness. I wasn't able to get them on the phone." She waited a discreet moment and then asked "are you OK?"

"As good as can be expected...under the circumstances," Alexis replied. She had nearly said _after watching my friend almost get raped_.

"The party," Maria said, "wasn't sanctioned or organized by Apple, you know."

"I don't think you have to worry about Jenny suing. But I'll make sure she presses charges against that...guy."

"Yes, good. He's in jail now, but his parents are already working to secure a bond for his release. Needless to say, he's been terminated from the internship program."

"I expected nothing less."

"Well, I'm about to go to the hospital to visit Jenny. I'll see you on Monday for your orientation."

"What?" Alexis shouted. "Are you kidding? I'm not taking the internship, I'm going to stay here with Jenny, until she's well enough to go home. Then I'm going with her and I'm not coming back until that cretin's trial, when I testify against his ass."

"I see," Maria said, sounding genuinely surprised. "Well, good luck, Alexis."

* * *

 _June 21, 2004 continued_

Marilyn looked up and felt the rain on her face. It was exhilarating; cool and softly sensual. She twirled Jason in a circle and their momentum tossed them onto the damp grass. The rain picked up, and Marilyn's hair, long and brightly red, began to clump together in wet, tangled strands.

Jason led Marilyn to a secluded spot behind a grove of trees. He wrapped his arms around Marilyn's back and kissed her. She gave way beneath him and as she lay flat on her back, the rain began to seep into her shirt. She twisted her hips, driving Jason to the side, and then she rotated again until she was on top of him. They continued to kiss, and for the first time, she let him part her lips with his tongue.

They flipped again and again, tumbling on the grass, oblivious to the world and drenching themselves in the process. Marilyn, on her back, stretched, pushing her arms straight over her head. She clasped her hands and smiled at Jason. He propped himself up by his palms and looking down at Marilyn, he blushed.

"Marilyn," he said, looking away, "you're kind of bursting out of that t-shirt."

She reached up, placed her right hand on his cheek. "I know," she whispered, and she took his right hand in her left and placed it on her breast.

* * *

Castle was furious. His face had turned red and the veins in his neck were throbbing. He was standing outside Jenny's room with Beckett and a cop named Miller, who had just related some bad news.

"Look!" Castle shouted, pointing at Jenny's parents who were huddled over their daughter. "Just look at what that bastard did! And now you're telling me that he's not being charged with a _crime_?"

"Dad, keep your voice down!" said Alexis. "You're going to upset Jenny's parents."

Beckett tossed her head to the right and they all moved away from the door.

"What's the reason for letting him go?" Beckett asked.

"We can't prove that Taylor committed a crime," Miller said. "Yes, there was Rohypnol in Jenny's system, but no way to know how it got there, and certainly no way to prove that he put it in Jenny's drink."

"Taylor?" Alexis asked. "Is that his name?"

"Yeah, Blake Taylor. And in case you're wondering, yes, he has connections. His father is a federal circuit court judge in San Jose. And Blake is a big-time tennis star with Olympic potential."

"And Jenny is a student and her father works for an accounting firm, so she's S-O-L? What about the fact that Taylor came out of the bathroom in his underwear and Jenny was unconscious on the bed?"

"No rape had been committed," Beckett said. "Taylor's lawyers will argue that he didn't give Jenny a roofie, that he just propositioned her and she agreed. Maybe she wouldn't have agreed if she wasn't high, but there's no way to prove that since Jenny can't remember what happened. And there's no way to prove that Taylor knew she had been given drugs."

"Then he must have a pretty short memory," Castle growled.

"Yeah," Miller said, "the law in New York and California is pretty similar in this kind of case it seems."

Alexis dropped her head and Castle put his arms around her.

"There must be something we can do," he said.

"Maybe there is," Beckett said. "Alexis, tell me everything you remember about what happened last night."

* * *

"Hey," Marilyn said, "slow down, Jason. Let's get back to the hotel alive."

Jason nodded, but kept his eyes on the road. The traffic was beginning to back up in the rain; the cars in the opposite direction on the 405 formed a line stretching to infinity, the glow of headlights fuzzy through the mist and the darkness of the storm.

Marilyn's mind was racing. She felt nervous – _what if I'm no good? What if he's no good? How can I even tell if either of us are any good?_ – and alternately relaxed. _T_ _his is right. We're in love. It's going to be so good!_

Jason, on the other hand, was simply terrified. Since _Romeo and Juliet_ in freshman year, he had been staving off Vicki Jensen's advances. She was continually cozying up to him during rehearsals, placing her hand on his back during bull sessions, bringing him coffee he hadn't asked for or simply hugging him. When senior year rolled around and she concluded that she couldn't wait for him anymore, she invited him to the prom. He said no, finally telling Vicki that he was in love with someone else, a girl from back home in New York. She tearfully accused him of leading her on and he became _persona non grata_ in drama for the rest of the year.

But that was in the past, and Marilyn was finally here. He had held her in his arms, kissed her, even caressed her breast and now they were on their way to her hotel room. Then it hit him. His fear came from his parents' rejection of Marilyn. They had tried to break up his relationship, and for a while Jason had harbored the thought that their dislike of her was behind the decision to move. But they hadn't seen her for more than a few minutes at a time and it seemed impossible that they could have anything against her. It's not as if they were moving too fast; if anything their relationship was more chaste than most couples their age. He finally concluded that they would have objected to anyone he dated out of a misguided sense of parental concern; they knew what was best for Jason and he had entered into a relationship with Marilyn at the tender age of nine and not told either of them. But they were both eighteen now, and beholden to no one. Besides, Jason hadn't told his father that Marilyn was coming.

As soon as Jason realized this, he loosened his grip on the steering wheel and slowed down. They reached Santa Monica and Jason pulled into a Walgreen's parking lot.

"Be right back," he said. Marilyn laughed and decided not to tell him that she had come prepared.

* * *

Alexis didn't want to go back to the house where the party was and she wanted to leave Jenny even less. But Jenny's parents left her room, giving her and Alexis some privacy and they had a talk and shared a few tears. Alexis had tried to keep her anger in check, but she left red-faced and furious, determined to find out what happened to her friend.

"What do you think her chances are?" Alexis asked.

"Not great," Beckett said. "Either they did a proper investigation or they didn't. It's hard to imagine they didn't, so maybe there really wasn't any hard evidence."

"He was drunk, right?" Castle said. "Drunk guys don't remember to cover their tracks. Besides, I'm guessing he only had one thing on his mind."

"Yeah," Alexis said.

A squad car appeared and Miller and his partner got out and met Beckett, Castle and Alexis.

"Thanks for this," Beckett said. "It's nice when cops can do a professional courtesy for each other."

"I don't know what you're expecting to find," Miller said. "Our team did a full investigation last night."

They walked up to the door and knocked. They heard a loud thud like someone falling over and a moment later a man opened the door. He was shirtless but wearing Hawaiian shorts, fortunately. He was also clearly hung over.

"Yeah?" he said, squinting.

"We're the police," Miller said.

"The police?"

"We need to take another look around. After all, there was a report of an attempted rape here last night."

"I thought you arrested Blake. Why are you here busting my balls?"

Miller smiled. A calmness passed over his face as he said "we did arrest him. But the judge let him go for lack of evidence, so we're here to see if we can find some and get his ass back behind bars where it belongs. So step out of the way before we get a warrant, and then there's no telling _what_ we'll find."

"Whoa," the intern said. "No need to go all Joe Sunday on me."

Miller, Lewis, Beckett and the two Castles entered.

* * *

Jason came back to the Jeep with a bag that clearly had more than just condoms. Marilyn took it and looked inside.

"Toothpaste and a toothbrush?" she laughed. "Planning on spending the night?"

Jason's nervousness returned. "No, it's just that I want to have fresh breath when we...when we..."

"Good idea," Marilyn said.

A thought occurred to Jason. "Hey, should we rent a video?" he said while keeping his eyes fixed on the road. "You know, get some pointers or something?"

"Absolutely not! People have been doing this for thousands of years, Jason, and all without that kind of help. No reason we can't do the same."

He tried to laugh it off. "You know, the moment I said that, I was hoping you'd say 'no'. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Sure, let's go with that," Marilyn said.

They arrived at the hotel and raced to Marilyn's room, soaked and shivering.

"Wait here," Marilyn said, and she disappeared into the bathroom. She returned a moment later with a couple of towels and sat on the edge of the bed next to Jason. "Lift your arms," she said through chattering teeth.

Jason did so, and Marilyn pulled his t-shirt off and gently dried his hair. Then she wrapped the towel around him and hugged him, using the caress to dry his back and stomach.

"Now hit the lights and dry me," she said.

Jason carefully made his way back to bed in the dark. He could see Marilyn's shadow against the dim light coming from the window. He pulled off her t-shirt and he could feel her shivering against him. He dried her hair quickly, then moved on from there, applying the softest touch he could manage. She moaned quietly when he dried her breasts and he nuzzled up to her and kissed her neck.

They continued, and when they were dry top to bottom, they shed the rest of their clothes. They shimmied under the covers and reached for one another. The skin-on-skin sensation overwhelmed them. It was the smell of cinnamon in a bakery as you step through the door, or the first time you saw the ocean in all its immensity.

"Jason," Marilyn said, "before we do this, we need to talk."

* * *

"Let's start in the bedroom," Beckett said, stepping over still sleeping college students. "Alexis, you said that Blake was in the master bathroom, right?"

"Yes," Alexis replied.

"My boys checked it out last night," Miller said. "They didn't find anything incriminating."

"The Rohypnol had to come from somewhere," Castle said. "Didn't 'your boys' interview anyone?"

"Sure, but you know what these kind of parties are like. The moment the cops arrive, people flee. More than half of them by the time the officers on duty were able to get control of the situation."

"And I suppose the ones who you did interview didn't see or hear anything?"

"Some did," Miller said. "This isn't New York, you know. The report says there were eight people holding Taylor down. And they all said the only thing they saw was him come out of the bedroom moaning, with his hand over his crotch."

"I kicked him," Alexis admitted.

"Yeah, Taylor told us. And to tell you the truth, we could have busted you for that. We had an assault and a complainant. But...I have a daughter about your age, and if she's ever in the same situation, I can only hope she handles it as well as you did. Now let's get to work."

"This guy's OK," Castle whispered to Alexis and Beckett.

* * *

Marilyn's words hung in the air like an eagle ready to strike. Jason grew worried that she feared he had been unfaithful and he wondered why, if this was so, she waited until they were naked in bed to bring it up.

"We need to talk?" Jason said. "Now? If you're thinking what I think you're thinking I can put your mind at ease. I'm still a virgin."

Marilyn sighed. "I wasn't thinking that at all. I said 'we need to talk,' but I should have said 'I have something to tell you.' It's about how much I love you and appreciate all you've done for me."

She pushed Jason onto his back. Then she looked away and began to softly weep.

"What is it?" Jason asked. He stroked her hair and said "take your time, sweetheart."

Marilyn's throat was dry and scratchy. She took a swig of water from a bottle next to the bed and swished it around her mouth, then closed her eyes and shook her head. "It begins," she said as she laid her cheek on Jason's chest, "the night my parents died. You had left my apartment and I was in my bedroom. I heard what happened, but I didn't see it. There were three shots. The first one was when my dad killed Socrates van Gogh. I assumed for a long time that my mom fired the second shot, but now I know for a fact that she didn't. My dad killed her, no doubt about that. That was the second shot. I heard that shot in my dreams so much that I finally realized I recognized the sound. The second shot sounded exactly the same as the first shot, but totally different from the third. So my mom didn't shoot first; she couldn't have. But her shot—the third shot—didn't happen right away. There was a delay; kind of a long one, too. I had blocked that out for some reason, but now I know why. It was my reflection. It tormented me, night after night. In my dreams I kept seeing myself walk into the living room. I saw my parents lying there dead, and then I looked up and stared at my reflection in the window. It stared back at me, too, both sad and terribly guilty and I couldn't get that image out of my head for the longest time. I began to worry that my mind was keeping me from remembering a terrifying truth. But then something happened in Dr. Gilbert's office. I was crying, and she handed me a tissue. It was such a simple gesture, but it reminded me of you...of _us_ , the first time we met at the Oreo tree. And that's when I realized something: it wasn't my reflection I had seen that night—it was you. _You_ killed my dad."

Marilyn's tears flowed into a puddle on Jason's chest. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. His heart began fluttering rapidly, pounding in Marilyn's ear so loudly she had to lift her head. She wrapped her left arm around his waist and tugged at him as though to keep him from fleeing.

"I remember," Marilyn continued, "it was cold in the apartment and we were drinking soda. My hands were freezing and you gave me your gloves. I gave them back to you before you left, so later you didn't leave any fingerprints on the gun. My mom had been going to the firing range to practice shooting every day after work because she thought my dad would get desperate near Christmas. Later, when the police tested for gunpowder on her fingers, it was there, and when it turned out I _didn't_ have gunpowder on mine, they concluded that I couldn't have fired a shot. And they figured out the trajectory and proved that the angle my dad was shot from was right where my mom was, so that was that. The case was closed and based on my testimony, they said my dad killed my mom and she shot him in self-defense. But I didn't tell them that I came out of my room just as you were leaving because I hadn't figured it out yet. I saw you, Jason, but it freaked me out so much that my mind blocked it out. Instead of the reality of seeing you, I imagined that I saw myself and I transferred the guilt of that hallucination onto my mother. I even told Dr. Gilbert that I had been blaming mom, and I had forgiven her. What I didn't realize at that time was that I was blaming _you_ , and it was tearing me up without my even knowing it. I sulked, and I didn't write to you, and I even started cutting myself. I couldn't sleep and I couldn't function and I didn't know why. But then I figured it out. It was when I forgave _you,_ not my mom, that I was truly able to get on with my life."

Jason felt the weight of his world crushing him; his breathing was shallow and labored. "I passed your father on the street," he finally said. "He looked furious, so I doubled back and saw him shoot your mom. I heard you cry out, and I knew you were still alive, but I was afraid he was going to kill you, too. I couldn't let that happen, and I couldn't take the time to find a phone and call 911, so I came inside when he was ransacking the apartment. I picked up your mom's gun and then your dad saw me. He was so surprised that he pointed his gun at me, and I was so scared that...I shot him. I shot him, Marilyn. I killed him."

He pulled Marilyn close and began to cry. "I'm so sorry," he blurted out. "I'm so, so sorry." Marilyn held him and rocked him like a mother comforting her child.

"We're going to get through this together, Jason," she said. "I promise."

She held him until they fell asleep.


	27. Chapter 27

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Twenty-Seven_

 _California, Part four_

" _Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love" —_ George Eliot

 _June 22, 2004_

Marilyn woke and sat up in bed. Stretching, she glanced to her left, saw the table with its vase and bouquet. The rising sun streamed through the blinds, revealing motes of dust floating lazily by and giving the irises an ethereal glow.

 _A good omen_ , she thought.

She cocked her head, heard Jason softly snoring beside her. She smiled and laid back down. He was on his side, facing away from her, and she pulled the blanket up to their necks, wrapped her arm around him and settled back in to sleep.

It didn't happen. Her mind was filled with the conversation of the night before. She worried that Jason might not be able to deal with being outed and would react to it by shutting down, or even breaking up with her. Worse, he could feel that she was threatening him, holding her knowledge of what really happened against his ever leaving. No matter his reaction, their relationship was now irrevocably altered. But it wasn't like she had blurted out a confession in the heat of passion; she had, in fact, thought about how to tell Jason countless times over the years. And now, in the privacy of a hotel, naked and vulnerable, she wanted them to make love, but first she wanted Jason to know that she knew and despite that, she still loved him. She wanted no secrets between them, reasoning that total honesty, and thus a deeper love, would intensify the experience.

She decided to put her thoughts into words. She grabbed pen and paper and wrote a poem.

 _One more day spent with you,_

 _One more night in your arms._

 _It's all I want to do,_

 _For our love has its charms._

 _It is sweet and it's sappy,_

 _It's gentle and kind._

 _Were we ever so happy_

 _Ere our fates were aligned?_

 _So hold me and kiss me,_

 _And make sweet love to me._

 _And we'll always remember_

 _Our Oreo tree._

 _Then come rain or come sun,_

 _In the town—at the shore,_

 _When each day is done,_

 _I'll want just one day more._

She slipped the poem into Jason's backpack and crept back to bed. Jason turned onto his back. In the still waxing light, Marilyn noticed a tattoo on his chest. It was the classic actor's symbol, the laughing and frowning masks of comedy and tragedy. She traced the outline of the tattoo with her finger, pressing and probing at his skin until he woke.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully.

"Morning," he replied. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, let his hands drop to his sides and sighed. He had a tortured look on his face, a mixture of guilt, fear and grief.

Marilyn said "sleep well?"

"Tolerably," he replied, parroting Hugh Grant from _Sense and Sensibility._ Then, "Marilyn, why did you wait until we were just about make love to tell me?" His eyes were red with exhaustion and wet with tears ready to spill over.

"Honestly, I didn't think about until then. I knew I was going to tell you, someday. But making love was a big decision for me, Jason, an emotional decision. I didn't decide to sleep with you on a whim. And I realized, as we were so close and the emotions were flowing, that I wanted to enter this part of our relationship in total honesty. I didn't think about telling you before then because we were never in that situation before and I didn't know what to expect. And I realized that in not telling you, I wasn't being honest with you. And I'm sorry about that. It also occurs to me that I was risking our relationship. But I reasoned that if we broke up over this it would be for the best, but if we stayed together _despite_ this, then we could stay together through anything." She smiled and kissed him.

"OK, I accept that and I appreciate it. But how can you ever feel the same way about me?"

"I don't, Jason, and that's the point. I love you more than ever."

"After what I did?" he said, genuinely surprised.

" _Because_ of what you did. Don't you see? You knew that my dad was capable of murder and you knew I was still alive. You went back in there because you wanted to protect me. You acted selflessly and with great courage. In a very real sense, I owe you my life."

"If he had done anything to you..."

She placed two fingers over his lips. "But he didn't. You made sure of that. So yes, I forgive you, and yes, I still love you, and yes, I still want to make love to you."

The fear passed from his face. He nodded and gathered Marilyn in his arms and kissed her.

And with that settled, they made love.

* * *

Officer Miller felt strange in this house. He was trying to find evidence of a crime, but if he was successful, it would prove his own brother and sister officers had not done their jobs properly. Just the fact that he was doing another search was damning in itself. Once word got out, he would be ostracized, a pariah on his own force. But he knew he had a sworn duty and he put aside all other thoughts.

It was easier than he could have imagined. They hadn't taken more than a few steps before they saw Taylor emerge from the bedroom. Alexis saw him and recoiled.

"That's him!" she said. Castle quickly stood in front of her.

"Blake Taylor?" said Miller.

Taylor froze. "Yeah?" he said.

"What brings you back here?"

"I um...forgot my pants last night." He had them over his shoulder and held them out as proof.

"You _forgot_ your pants? How's that possible?"

The look of fear on Taylor's face vanished. "You know I was arrested," he said confidently. "But I was released and no charges were filed, so I'll be on my way."

Miller blocked his path. "Do you smell that, officer Lewis?" he asked.

Lewis sniffed the air. "Marijuana," he said. "Don't you think so, officer Beckett?"

"Without a doubt," Beckett said. "And it seems to be most heavily concentrated right here."

"Yep," Miller said.

He took Taylor's pants and told Lewis to pat him down.

"Well, well," Miller said, "look what we have here." He held up a small white box. "Rohypnol. I guess you didn't want to leave the evidence behind, huh?"

"I didn't give any to that girl," Taylor said.

"Her name is Jenny!" Alexis shouted.

"OK, Jenny. I didn't give any Rohypnol to _Jenny._ " He said it smugly and Castle turned around and shook his head at Alexis.

Lewis held up a plastic bag. "A sandwich bag, but where's the sandwich? Strange, carrying around a bunch of oregano with nothing to put it on. Unless..."

He opened the bag, smelled its contents and smiled.

"This isn't oregano, son. It's marijuana. And you're under arrest."

* * *

"That was amazing," Marilyn said, though her reaction was more visceral than physical. The truth was, she was in some pain, but the emotional high she had experienced, the closeness she felt toward Jason and the bond they now had more than made up for it.

Jason's cell phone rang. "It's my mom," he said, and Marilyn quickly wrapped the bedspread around herself and scurried to the bathroom.

"Morning, mom," Jason said.

"Good morning, Jason," his mother replied. "So...you spent the night with Marilyn after all?"

"Yes, I did. I love her, mom."

"I know you do. And you were safe and respectful?"

"I was. I give you my word."

"OK, Jason. We'll see you at home later tonight. Why don't you bring Marilyn along for dinner?"

Jason chuckled. "I will. And thanks for understanding."

He put his pants on and met Marilyn in the bathroom. She was holding the bedspread up to her chin with one hand and brushing her teeth with the other.

"You were awake before me," Jason said.

"I was. For about a half-hour, I guess."

He blushed. "Did you look?"

"Look?" Marilyn asked, though she knew perfectly well to what he was referring.

"At _me._ When I was asleep. Did you... _look?_ "

Marilyn snickered. "Oh, I looked, all right. Took my time, too. And in the spirit of turnabout being fair play..."

She dropped the bedspread and he followed her into the shower.

* * *

The flight back to New York was nearly six hours long. They flew in a Boeing 767, business class, the middle section having three seats across. Beckett sat on one end and slept; Castle was in the middle reading. They were still over Utah when Alexis said "dad?" in a sad tone. Castle put down his book.

"What is it, Alexis?"

She looked straight at him and squinted, her look bordering between confusion and regret. "I'm sorry for what happened," she said softly. "Sorry for making you come all the way out here to help me. Sorry that I didn't use better judgment."

"First of all," Castle said, "you have nothing to be sorry for. Second, whenever and wherever you need me, I'm there. Third, I think you used excellent judgment. First of all, you stayed sober. That allowed you to take control of the situation and get Jenny the help she needed. You stayed with her and you called me and made sure I called her parents. You did everything right. You were thrust into a crappy situation, that's all, but you handled it beautifully."

She offered him a half-smile. "It's just that I feel so naive. I was the one who wanted to go to the party. I thought it was going to be about getting to know people and making contacts." She lowered her voice. "It was just another stupid frat party with a bunch of drunk assholes."

"Going from college to work doesn't eliminate that. And making business contacts is a _good_ thing. But people always have and always will get drunk at parties and act like assholes. That's where your excellent judgment comes in. I'll never stop worrying about you entirely, but I'm confident that you'll always do the right thing, no matter the situation."

Alexis smiled. "I had a couple of pretty good teachers." Then she added "we keep passing unseen through little moments of other people's lives."

Castle raised his eyebrows. "Yes, indeed."

"It's from _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance._ I thought about it because I came here knowing only Jenny, and now, a few days later, I'm leaving. And in that time, I flitted in and out of the lives of a bunch of strangers. Most of them won't remember me, either. "Except," she grinned, "that creep Taylor, of course. I'm sure he's thinking about me right now."

"Either that or he's trying to stave off the advances of a biker named Greaseball."

They laughed, and Castle went back to reading while Alexis went to sleep.

* * *

"It's Disneyland, isn't it?" Marilyn said as they drove along Santa Monica Boulevard. "I've wanted to go there since I was a little girl."

"Disneyland?" Jason said. "No, that's south. We're headed north."

Shortly thereafter they pulled into the Warner Bros. parking lot. Marilyn was so excited she had her door open before the Jeep had fully stopped and she nearly fell on her face. She pulled Jason along in her haste to get tickets for the studio tour.

The tour was interesting and varied; they saw lots of sets, strolled down the midwestern street, visited a sound stage and took a photograph on the couch at _Central Perk_ from _Friends._ But it wasn't until they reached the Stars Hollowset from _Gilmore Girls_ that Marilyn became ecstatic. Everywhere they visited, from Luke's Diner to the gazebo to the famous _Crap Shack_ , aka Lorelai and Rory's house, evoked a kind of joy that would never have been as intense had she not been with Jason. Each destination, so familiar to her from the show, resonated within her, and she related this perfect, fictional world with her own life and her perfect, _real_ and eternal love with Jason.

"Now," said the tour guide as they walked up a dusty path, "some of you may recognize this house from _The Waltons_. But sets are often reused in Hollywood, and it's been given new life as the _Dragonfly Inn._ Feel free to go inside and look around."

Marilyn took Jason's hand to lead him inside. They were on the porch when Jason put his arm around Marilyn's waist and stopped her.

"Will you just stand still?" he said, and before she could register her shock, he kissed her.

She let her body go limp in his arms. He wrapped his arms around her back and she did her part by putting her hands on his shoulders.

They parted, for just a moment, and then she leaned in.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Will you just stand still?" she said, and they kissed again.

And with that re-enactment of the pivotal kiss from the _Gilmore Girls_ season finale a few weeks before, their time in Stars Hollow came to an end.

* * *

Marilyn handed over her boarding pass and turned around. One last wave, one last kiss blown in his direction.

And then she was on her way home.

END OF PART THREE


	28. Chapter 28

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Twenty-Eight_

 _...And Miles To Go Before I Sleep_

 _PART FOUR_

" _How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?" —_ Carson McCullers, _The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter_

 _December 12, 2014_

He leaned against the streetlamp, casually keeping an eye on the house. Johns would be parading in and out for another two hours or so, and he had to make sure that the turnover was quick, but not _too_ quick. Quick turnover meant more johns, of course; more johns meant more cash. Too quick meant the johns would feel cheated and find other outlets for their lust, and that was bad for business. And he was, at heart, a businessman.

He heard someone approaching from behind and turned just in time to see a flash of light as it reflected off the knife blade. It sliced through the air and penetrated him just below the navel. His eyes grew wide in shock and fear and his mouth popped open. A sharp exhalation followed, accompanied by a grunt—the only sound he was still capable of making. As the knife plunged deeper, his stomach exploded in agony. He was paralyzed; he could neither move nor breathe. His skin was on fire, and as the blade made its way upward, symmetrically dividing his abdomen, the pain shot through his entire nervous system. The knife, still guided by an unseen hand, reached its apex at his breastbone and was quickly withdrawn, making a sound like a wet sponge being squeezed and the blood that had been held back by the blade now gushed forth, leaving a quickly growing stain on the sidewalk. He fell to his knees and looked up, seeing his murderer at last, and the shock of recognition registered for but a moment. Then his eyes rolled to the back of his head and as he crashed to the ground, his face landed on a beer bottle and shattered it. He didn't feel it though, and she dropped the knife and ran away in horror.

* * *

Marilyn took a seat and ordered a glass of brandy. The bar was cold and dim, lit mostly with flickering neon signs that said _Eddie's Place_ scattered around the joint _._ There was more neon behind the bar— _Budweiser, Miller High Life, Corona_ _—_ the usual for a bar like this. The signs were arrayed with candy canes and tinsel. There was a Christmas tree in the far corner decked with red and white ornaments and popcorn strings and the jukebox was playing _Jingle Bell Rock_. Considering the number of patrons and the fact that it was only 9:40 on a Friday night, it was surprisingly quiet.

 _Maybe they're all like me_ , Marilyn thought. _Drinking alone in a seedy bar on a Friday night_ _near Christmas_ _._

The bartender, a thin man with a black ponytail, tired eyes and Maori sleeve tattoos, squinted, trying to ascertain if Marilyn was of legal age. Then he shrugged and held up a bottle of Hennessy VS.

"Will this do?" he asked.

Marilyn nodded, and the bartender filled a brandy snifter and placed it in front of her. She swirled the glass for a bit, transferring the heat from her hand to the brandy, coaxing the aroma from it. She held up the glass and stared at the brandy vortex for a moment, wondering if it was true that things swirled in the opposite direction south of the equator. Then she held the glass under her nose and inhaled the delicate bouquet; it was sweet like toasted marshmallows with cinnamon undertones and a hint of plum. She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she put the snifter down and reached into her purse. The bartender let out a full-throated belly laugh, like a department store Santa Claus trying too hard. Appropriate, considering the décor.

"I've never seen anyone dunk Oreos in brandy before," he said.

"Bad habit from my youth," Marilyn said. She had a second brandy and was lost in thought. The world grew tilted until she shook her head to chase away the booze and everything snapped back to its proper orientation.

The door opened and a haggard looking, thin woman entered and took the open bar stool to Marilyn's left. She was dressed in a short grey skirt and knee-high boots. Fishnet stockings and a low-cut top completed the ensemble.

 _Working girl_ , Marilyn thought.

"Whiskey," the woman said breathlessly. "Double."

"You got it, Belle," the bartender said.

Marilyn smiled. "Belle. I love that name. I have ever since I read _Gone With The Wind._ "

"I'm not a prostitute," Belle snorted defensively.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that you were."

Belle shook her head. "Forget about it. Bad day." She downed the whiskey in a single gulp, panting a little at the burn. "Thanks, Joe," she said to the bartender. "I really needed that." She was shivering and her teeth were chattering. She exhaled warm air into her palms and rubbed her arms.

 _She seems nervous_ , Marilyn thought.

"You want another?" Joe asked. "You look like you could use some more warming up."

"Maybe later," Belle said. "I _would_ like a cup of coffee, though."

Joe delivered it from the decaf pot without asking. Belle took a sip and said "thanks. You really are my Luke Danes, sometimes."

Marilyn chuckled at the _Gilmore Girls_ reference. _A kindred spirit._

Belle noticed Marilyn staring at the pale red stain on her skirt. She rubbed her palms on her thighs and said "my date. He spilled wine on me. I had to rinse it off in a fountain, if you can believe that."

Marilyn didn't, but instead of saying "why didn't you go home?" she said "that sucks."

"Yeah. I'm never letting the girls at the office set me up again. This loser didn't even pay for dinner."

 _She's trying too hard_ , Marilyn thought. _No way she works in an office._ She dunked another cookie and saw Belle looking at her intently.

"Would you like some?" Marilyn asked, proffering an unopened box of cookies. "I have plenty."

Belle smiled. "I love Oreos," she said.

"Try dunking them in your coffee, Belle. Trust me, it's worth it."

"Hot Oreos!" Belle exclaimed between bites. "I had no idea."

"Yeah, neither did I. My boyfriend got me to try that a few years ago."

"Really? A few years ago? How long have you been together?"

"Nineteen years. Since we were nine." She felt an instant pang of sorrow. _Nineteen years,_ _and farther apart now than we've ever been._

Belle whistled. "Wow, that's a pretty committed relationship." She glanced at her watch. "Is he working now?"

Marilyn shrugged. "Maybe," she said.

"Hey, I didn't mean anything by that. It's just that, you know, it's Friday night and you're here by yourself."

Marilyn raised her eyebrows and Belle said "oh, no. I just made things worse, didn't I? I'm sorry."

"No, you didn't. He actually lives in Los Angeles. I was hoping he was going to move back here by now, but his career is really taking off."

"Is he an actor or a musician or something?"

"Actor. He's making a movie now in England—yet another adaptation of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , if you can believe it _._ He got the part after he did a couple of plays that got him some attention. _Henry The Fifth. Dr. Faustus._ "

"Shakespeare _and_ Marlowe?" Belle said. "Impressive. Who did he play? Faustus? Mephistopheles?"

"Faustus," Marilyn said slowly. Her face softened and her eyes widened with respect. "I'm sorry, I'm not used to people knowing Christopher Marlowe, let alone anything about his work." _Especially prostitutes._

"I got my bachelor's in English from Xavier. Cincinnati, born and raised." She made a sword thrusting motion with her arm. "I'm a proud Musketeer."

There was something about that arm swing that struck Marilyn as weird. It was as though Belle had started the motion with gusto and halfway through, she lost interest in it and her arm dropped to her side and hung there limply.

"Where are _you_ from?" Belle asked.

"I'm a citizen of the world."

"Socrates," Belle said.

Marilyn laughed. "Yes, indeed. But as far as my education, I'm a Violet. NYU. BS in economics."

"Do you work on Wall Street...?" Belle trailed off, trying to prompt her new friend to reveal her name.

"Marilyn. Actually, I don't work at all right now. Haven't been able to find a job. It seems no one on Wall Street is hiring. I guess picked the wrong time to try to break into the financial world."

"Damn. I know what you mean. I came here to be a writer and...well, it just hasn't worked out that way."

* * *

The surgeon walked into the waiting room with an air of supreme confidence. Castle saw him and woke Alexis.

"It went perfectly," the surgeon said. "Your mother will be up and at 'em in a few days."

Castle shook the doctor's hand. "Thank goodness," he said. Alexis hugged Castle and said "thank you, doctor."

"No problem," said the surgeon. "You'll be able to see her soon."

Castle and Alexis had a cup of coffee and then made their way to Martha's room. They peeked inside. The nurse came up to them and said "are you family?"

"I'm her son," Castle said, "and this is my daughter."

"I see. She's still groggy, so don't stay too long. I'll come by in ten minutes. She has her call button, so you can press it if she needs anything."

Castle and Alexis entered quietly. Martha looked weak and, Castle realized for the first time, old.

"OK mother," Castle said, "you should be ready to go by now. Up and at 'em!" He echoed the words of the surgeon, hoping that they would reassure Martha. She didn't react, so he took her hand; it was bitterly cold and he almost recoiled. But the confidence Castle had hoped to instill in her through his voice she received from his hand; it was warm and soothing and strong. Martha smiled and tried to open her eyes, but the anesthesia lingered and her eyelids refused to cooperate.

"Don't make me laugh, Richard," she said dreamily. "I can still put you over my knee you know."

Castle laughed. "You threatened to do that many times when I was a boy, mother, but you never followed through."

"You were still cute back then. Things change, Richard. People get...old."

Alexis put a vase with flowers on the table next to Martha's bed. She leaned over the bed and hugged Martha.

"You're looking great, grandma."

"Bless you for saying that," Martha replied. "It does my old heart good to hear it."

 _Another reference to being old_ , Alexis thought. She touched Martha's cheek and said "I brought you a bouquet of irises. Your favorite."

Martha tried again to open her eyes, and this time, she succeeded. She turned her head to the right. "They're lovely, Alexis. Thank you."

"Kate wanted to be here," Castle said, "but she still has to testify tomorrow, so she needed to get to sleep early. But she sends her love."

"Isn't it funny," Martha said, "that I've gotten so used to having her around that's when she's not, everything feels incomplete. She's done you a world of good, Richard."

"Don't I know it," Castle said.

* * *

"Another please," Marilyn said, pointing to the brandy snifter. Joe filled it and Marilyn stared at it before sipping slowly, this time without dunking an Oreo first.

"You OK?" Belle asked. "You seem distracted."

"I'm sorry," Marilyn sighed. "I don't mean to be a drag."

She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them wide, shaking her head. The third glass of brandy had just kicked in, a sort of dull, hazy feeling like a thin curtain had been pulled over her mind. Belle patted her hand.

"No need to apologize. This is a bar, after all. Look around; we're all here to drown our sorrows."

Marilyn nodded. "My uncle passed away," she said.

The words were hard to get out and her voice had grown hoarse. She fought off the impulse to cry, reasoning that she had done enough of that already. "He and my aunt took care of me when my parents died. Aunt Katherine died last year; uncle Boyd less than a year later. He was buried today. And now, in a city of eight million people, I'm all alone."

"I'm sorry," Belle said. "That's...rough."

"It was so unexpected. He seemed to be on the upswing after aunt Katherine's death. He was going for walks, playing chess in the park with friends, cooking for himself. I'd even take him to the movies now and then."

"That's a nice memory," Belle offered.

"My parents died unexpectedly, too. You just never know." She took a sip of brandy and swished it over her gums. "Have you read Robert Frost?" she sighed.

"Most of his stuff. yes. What do you have in mind?"

" _Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening._ "

"Sure, I know it."

"After my parents died, I fell into a deep depression. That poem helped me a lot. I used to read it every night, under the covers with a book light. That last stanza was a reminder to me to make something of myself, and not to waste any time, because anything can happen. _Shit happens._ "

She wiped a tear from her eyes, placed her elbow on the bar, palm up, and, exhausted, rested her cheek on her palm.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep..."

She paused, and Belle took over.

"And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep."

"I feel like the poet," Marilyn said. "I've accomplished nothing in my life so far except my degree, and what has it gotten me? And I, too, have miles to go before I sleep."

Belle turned that over in her head and ordered another whiskey.

* * *

Alexis had never seen her father cry and the shock of it froze her. Castle held the phone away from his ear and let it drop to the ground.

"She's gone," he said, and he wrapped his arms around Alexis and put his face on her shoulder. His tears came in flurries, his chest heaved and spasmed. Alexis held him and rocked with him, feeling strangely maternal. Then the realization of her grandmother's death hit her, too, and as she cried in Castle's arms, he was comforting his little girl like he did when he and Meredith divorced. But Meredith was still in Alexis' life, if only tangentially; Martha would only be a memory from now on.

"It was a heart attack," Castle said when he and Alexis finally parted. "They did all they could." He swept her red hair away from her eyes and kissed her on the forehead. "There's so much of your grandmother in you," he said, and Alexis looked up at him with her tear-stained face and managed a smile.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, daddy."

* * *

The conversation grew stale as Marilyn and Belle occupied themselves with their own sorrows. Marilyn was still wondering whether she and Jason were truly meant to be; Belle was thinking of a murder a short while ago. Another brandy, another whiskey, and the world began tilting for both of them.

The door burst open and a women entered. She looked around and made a beeline for Belle.

"Belle," the woman said, "Eddie's dead!"

"What? How?"

"He was murdered! Stabbed on the street. An angry john, probably."

Belle turned white, hoping that Marilyn hadn't heard that, but she was staring at her brandy with a forlorn look. Belle grabbed her purse and left some cash on the bar, then hurried out the door with the woman.

Marilyn turned and watched them leave. _So Belle_ _ **is**_ _a prostitute_ , she thought. _A prostitute with an English degree. Funny what desperation does to people._

She drank one last brandy and thought: _funny what desperation has done to_ _ **me**_ _._


	29. Chapter 29

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Twenty-Nine_

 _Perspectives_

 _Kindness is a gift the blind can see and the deaf can hear —_ Mark Twain

 _December 13, 2014_

When Marilyn walked into _Eddie's Place_ the next night, all the seats at the bar were taken with women who were clearly prostitutes. There were a few behind the bar too, jumping up and down and hugging Joe, who was wearing a Santa hat and pouring drinks with abandon. A few women were dancing, drinks in hand. A familiar, if slurred, voice rose above the din. Marilyn was surprised that she was happy to see Belle.

"Marilyn! Come here, come here, have a seat." Belle held up a shot glass and drained it, hopped off her stool and fell straight to the ground. The other women didn't seem to notice, so Marilyn hurried over and helped her up.

"Belle," she said, "are you OK?"

"Never bedder," Belle said. She put her hand on Marilyn's cheek and squinted at her with the fog of approaching drunkenness. "Eddie...Eddie's dead." She slowly tried to snap her fingers, but couldn't quite make them meet. She finally managed it on the fourth try and Joe heard the snap and poured her another shot, then swigged a shot of his own straight from the bottle. Marilyn grimaced, wondering about health code violations, but the women either didn't seem to mind or were simply oblivious.

"Eddie?" Marilyn said. "The man from last night? Is he the owner of the bar?"

"Not any more. Now it belongs to _us!_ " She raised her shot glass and was joined by eight other women. "To Eddie," Belle said. "Bye-bye, dumb ass!"

There was cheering all around and nine heads snapped back in unison as shot glasses were emptied. Marilyn watched this with amusement. One of the women at the bar looked at her cell phone and said "damn. Work time." She hurried out the door and Marilyn took the stool she had vacated.

"Brandy, Marilyn?" Joe asked, and she nodded. _I guess I'm a regular here_ _now_ , she thought with indifference. She looked around at the rejoicing women. They all seemed tired despite their mirth, or maybe worn out and many of them were surely younger than they looked. _There are worse things to be than a regular at a bar, I_ _suppose_ , Marilyn thought.

Belle tapped the shoulder of the woman sitting to Marilyn's right. "Jody, swap seats with me," she said and after a quick game of 'you-go-that-way-and-I'll-go-this-way' Belle sat down facing Marilyn. She was smiling, but also struggling to keep her eyes open. Then she stood up and said "look, look," pointing at herself. "We all got t-shirts."

Marilyn looked at Belle's shirt with bemusement. "It's a picture of a fish hook, right?" she said. "You all have the same design?"

Belle nodded and said "uh-uh. Yup."

"So what am I missing?" Marilyn asked.

"We joined a basketball league at the Y. Eight teams, all women. We play on Tuesday and Friday nights."

"And the fish hook?"

"We're _The_ _Hookers!_ " Belle shouted, and all the hookers at Eddie's Place cheered. "It's kind of a tongue-in-cheek name," she giggled. "Our specialty is the hook shot. Now, watch this." She made a long, looping curve with her right arm and watched with amazement as the shot glass she forgot she was holding sailed over their heads, bounced off a table and landed on the floor in front of the juke box. Joe ran over and retrieved it without a word.

"Oops. Guess that was more of a hook shot _glass._ "

Marilyn thought better of saying _the name_ _suits you_ , so she went with "it sounds like fun."

"Oh it is, it is. And you should totally join our team. We can always use a good point guard." She patted Marilyn on the shoulder like they had been buddies for years.

"I'll have to pass," Marilyn said, not wanting to be known as a hooker in any context.

"Perfect! Everyone on the team is a glory hog. We need a passer, someone to pile up the assists in our rematch against the nuns from Saint Charo's next week. How they managed to beat us last time in full tunics and veils is still a mystery. Of course," she added, "mysteries are kind of their stock in trade. Hee, hee."

"Saint Charo's?"

"Just kidding. It's Holy Mother of the Dancing Sun. A not-so-oblique reference to the miracle at Fatima. Well, not so oblique to a Jesuit like me."

Joe filled a shot glass and Belle raised it like she was toasting, but ended up making the sign of the cross with it instead. "Be it ever so holy," she muttered right before she slammed it.

"I'm sorry," Marilyn said, "but I meant to say I _can't_ play. I've got two left feet."

"You'll fit right in! Tammy, our small forward, has two left _hands_. Stacy is our power forward and she's _always_ dead tired. Our shooting guard, Jessica, went 0-for-27 against _The Froot Hoops,_ including 19 air balls _._ I'm our center, and I'm five-one in heels. Our team is a collection of players totally unsuited for their jobs, with a few tortured metaphors to boot! We're all so proud."

 _The_ _H_ _ookers_ raised their empty shot glasses and Joe got refills all around.

Marilyn wanted to return to the more serious subject of Eddie's death, but she wasn't sure what to say. These women weren't exactly in mourning. The closest thing she had seen to sadness was one young woman's puppy eyes when pleading with Joe to open a new bottle of Scotch. Still, Marilyn thought she should be diplomatic.

"I'm sorry about your friend. Did you know him long?"

Belle looked confused. "Eddie? He was a mean, miserable pimp. I hated him." She said it with an anger that surprised Marilyn, especially the emphasis on the _p's_ , harsh, as though she was spitting. She swept her arm around in a long arc. "We _all_ hated him." She snapped her fingers again and Joe poured her another shot. She drank it immediately and slammed the shot glass on the bar.

"Then I'm happy for you," Marilyn said truthfully and without thinking about it.

"And I'm happy for you, too," Belle said while looking the other way.

"For me? Why?"

Belle placed her chin on the bar, then turned her head so her right cheek was flat on the surface. She swatted away a hallucinatory gnat and looked at Marilyn sideways, her face filled with pain and pathos. "Because," she said, "if he was still alive and you were here, he'd want to put you to work, too. Eddie made it impossible to say 'no.' And you don't want to do that, Marilyn. You don't want to be a working girl like us."

A tear rolled from her left eye, across the bridge of her nose and plopped on the bar. Marilyn sighed and placed her arm across Belle's shoulders.

* * *

The Old Haunt was filled, despite the _closed_ sign on the door. The booths had been removed and replaced with round tables that were covered with linen tablecloths and adorned with fine china place settings. In the center of each table was a bouquet of irises. Castle shared the table in front with Alexis, Jackson, Beckett, Espo, Ryan and Lanie. Doug McGee chose not to come, as did Meredith and Gina, which infuriated Castle. The other tables were filled with people Martha had touched in her seventy-four years, including childhood friends, actors, stagehands and, simply, friends. In front was a lectern with a large photo of Martha behind it. Off to the side were tables where the caterers were set up. Waiters floated throughout, refilling champagne glasses as the toasts piled up.

Jackson stood up and made his way to the front. "Most of you don't know me, but my name is Humphrey Borgnine," he said.

"Still covert, obviously," Castle whispered to Alexis and Beckett. "He's using the old standby of morphing his two favorite actors, Bogart and Ernest Borgnine. All those years in the CIA have left their hold on him."

"I was privileged to know Martha for many years. Our relationship was...complicated and I'm not going to go into too many details. But I wanted to tell you the story of how I met Martha. It was 1967 and I was on a mission—" he paused, realizing his gaffe —"to find a really great Mexican food place near Broadway. I had just seen a late showing of my very first James Bond movie, _Casino Royale_ , with Peter Sellers and by the time it ended, most of the Broadway shows had been over for a bit, so there were a lot of actors just leaving theaters. I was new to being an agent in those days—" another gaffe, another pause—"er, a _talent_ agent, and I recognized a lot of potential assets... _clients..._ among the passersby."

"This is a disaster," Beckett whispered.

"I'll bet it gets even better," Castle replied.

"Now I was in a hurry," Jackson said, because I still had to plant a bug...er, _bulb..._ so it would bloom in the spring." Jackson tugged at his shirt collar and loosened his tie. "Now the agency was all over my case...um... _Creative Artists Agency_ , who I worked for in those days, to find a mole, or, rather a _more_ diverse clientele. And then I saw Martha. She was tall, beautiful and cool as the other side of the pillow, and she was heading right for me. Then a scumbag came up and grabbed her purse. She was holding on for all she was worth, but losing the battle. I was pushing people out of the way, trying to get to her before she was exfiltrated...umm..."

"Let's see him get out of this one," Alexis said.

"Umm...but I got there just in time."

"Good going, pop," Castle said. "Move on and hope nobody noticed."

"Anyway, I clocked him but good. As I picked him up, I thought he looked familiar, like a spook...um... _spooky_ guy I knew from my time in Moscow... _Idaho_ , where I was born. I got on my satellite phone—still a prototype in 1967, but the agency was always cutting edge—and called Langley. Yeah, that would be Langley, Illinois, where the agency had a remote office for talent from Chicago. Martha was so grateful and so beautiful that I asked her on a date that night. And we went out a week later when I returned from Athens. You know, the Athens in Georgia. Anyway, that's my story."

He dropped his head and slunk back to his seat.

"How was the Mexican food?" came a voice from the back.

"Dad," Castle said, "you should give some serious thought to retiring."

"Yeah," Jackson said.

* * *

 _What have I gotten myself into?_

Belle woke up in the dark, her head throbbing. She pressed under her eyebrow ridges with her thumbs, remembering something her mother told her years ago about pressure points to lessen headache pain, but nothing happened. She realized she wasn't in her own bed—this bed was clearly too wide—but had no memory of how she got here. The prior night consisted of snatches of conversations and lots of booze but nothing else.

She thought about getting up, but decided against it, reasoning that she should wait until it was light. Then it hit her like a sledgehammer right between the eyes, centered on where her hangover was already wreaking havoc.

 _Eddie._

Just a year ago Belle seemed to be in control over her life. She was in a stable relationship, had plenty of time to write and, most of all, she and her newborn son were healthy. She had even taken him on the train to Cincinnati when he was only six months old, and he behaved well, despite the cooing and adulation from the other passengers. "Say hello to your grandson Peter," Belle told her mom Rhonda at the train station, and the cooing started all over again.

Despite this, the drive home was tense. Everything Belle's mother saidwas full of implied accusations that Belle had failed to reach her potential. _You_ _still haven't published anything_ _? Have you thought about a job as a teacher? You can go back to school and get your credential. What about finance? Surely those Wall Street companies can use a smart, articulate_ _woman_ _like yourself._

Belle ignored her. This was only her second trip home in the six years since she had left and though Rhonda had actually softened her stance somewhat—there were fewer accusatory emails and text messages—it still didn't make Belle feel like she was anything less than a failure in her mother's eyes. She had naively thought that having a baby might change things, Rhonda being a devoted Catholic and all, but the lack of a wedding shot that down.

Since Rhonda's attempts to be supportive of Belle's life in New York hadn't worked, she decided on a new approach, thinking this trip home might be a sign that Belle was growing weary of being away. "Oh! We got a letter yesterday from the reunion committee at Xavier," she told Belle after dinner, as though it had slipped her mind. "It wouldn't kill you to go and maybe make some contacts. There's still plenty of time for you to make something of your life. You could move back home and start fresh. Procter and Gamble is always hiring. I'll even take care of the baby."

"Move back here?" Belle said. "Mom, that's not even an option."

"And why not? What's keeping you in New York?"

"Eddie is! He has a business, and, in case you hadn't figured it out yet, a family!"

"A family," Rhonda snorted. "He has a child, but no wife, and you call yourselves a _family_? And don't get me started on _my_ business. I'm the one who bought the bar for him to run in the first place."

"Don't you think I _know_ that, mother? And suppose I _do_ come home. What happens to your precious bar? Would you want to leave Eddie there to run it, and trust him to make the payments if I wasn't there?"

Rhonda shook her head and walked away.

The trip lasted a week and though Belle greatly enjoyed being away from Rhonda and catching up with friends, showing Peter off, visiting her old stomping grounds and watching a basketball game at Xavier, she was still looking forward to going back to New York. But Jody from the bar was waiting for Belle outside of her apartment with a warning.

"Watch out for Eddie," Jody said. "Something's got him pretty pissed off and he's taking it out on the girls."

"Oh, no," Belle said. "I was afraid that might happen. Has he hit you?"

"No, but I'm not working on my back. I can't say the same for the rest of them."

It had been a year since Eddie had rented an apartment and he soon began rotating johns and prostitutes through it with an efficiency that would be coveted in the legitimate business world. He kept 60% for himself and only recruited women who were already "in the business" and worked solo—no competing pimps to antagonize. The women lived in the apartment rent free, two in each bedroom and four scattered throughout the rest of the apartment, for which they were willing to give up more than half their earnings. But Eddie had lost control of one of them, a barely legal girl from South Carolina who wasn't pulling in enough cash and threatened to go to the cops. Eddie, still new to the gig, let her off the hook, but the sting of losing both business and control over what he called an asset, gnawed at him. He started to exert tighter control over the other prostitutes with fear and the occasional throttling. And it worked.

When Eddie came home that night, Belle demanded an answer. "Are you hitting the girls?" she asked.

Eddie 'refused to dignify the accusation with an answer,' but that was far from acceptable. The weeks passed, the arguments grew more heated, tempers flew out of control. Finally, when Belle saw one of the women with a black eye, she broke an entire cupboard of dishes in rage.

"So you're Connie Corleone?" Eddie shouted. "Then you know what happens next!" He raised his arm, but stopped short of hitting her, letting his hand drop to his side. A week later, however, it happened—a quick backhand slap across her face, sending her flying. She was more shocked than hurt.

"I'm sorry babe, I'm sorry," he said, his eyes narrow yet intense. "You just don't know the financial pressure I'm under. You wouldn't want me to miss a payment to your mother, would you? I respect what she did for me so much that I'll do anything to make good on my promise. I just need to make some extra cash by putting some girls to work. It's only temporary, you'll see."

"Work? What you're making them do isn't work, it's a _sin!_ "

"They'd be doing this with or without me, babe. And trust me, they're better off with me than on their own. Besides, I can get them better rates by contacting richer johns than they can. And it won't last forever. Just until I get back on my feet."

She was disgusted by his failure to say 'back on _our_ feet.' _I'm_ _not really part of his life_ , she thought. Then the rest of her sordid reality hit home as she finally admitted to herself that Eddie was a filthy pimp. And the catalyst for that understanding had been that he hit her with a vehemence that would surely intensify. She decided it wasn't the time to tell Eddie she was pregnant.

Now, Belle started to spend more time in the bar, drinking coffee or seltzer water. Jody had been waitressing there for a bit, and she introduced Belle to the women. Belle learned their names, baked cookies for them and filled in a few part-time shifts as a cocktail waitress, and before long, Belle and the women were fast friends, a fact driven home when they threw Belle a baby shower.

Eddie was furious.

"I don't want you hanging around them," he shouted. "They're bad news!"

"No they're not, Eddie. They're my friends. And if you hit any of them again, we're through."

Belle was sure that Eddie would grow increasingly desperate, meaning her son was at risk. And so she made up her mind to leave this life behind for good and return home to Cincinnati with Peter. But it was only a short time later that she watched Eddie die and she ended up wandering into _Eddie's Place_ with his blood on her skirt, too freaked out to even change her clothes.

* * *

The room grew lighter and Belle was fully awake. She looked around and realized she didn't recognize where she was. It was a small room, sparsely decorated and the bed was small, but comfortable. She shook her head, trying to chase the cobwebs away, rubbed her eyes, hoped she was imagining it all.

There was a knock at the door. Belle, not knowing what else to do, said "come in, please."

She heard a voice: "I made coffee, black and extra strong. And I brought you some Advil. You must have the mother of all headaches."

"This is _your_ place?" Belle said, thinking she sounded like an utter fool.

"It is," Marilyn replied.


	30. Chapter 30

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Thirty_

 _Forgiveness and Stuff_

 _The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is an attribute of the strong—_ Mahatma Gandhi

December 16, 2014

"Bless me father, for I have sinned."

That was all of the sacrament of confession that Marilyn knew and she had gotten that much from movies. She sat in the confession booth feeling claustrophobic; it was small and dim, with a dull beam of light that shone through from above, illuminating bits of dust as they floated slowly by. It was also quiet—she had deliberately chosen 1:00 a.m., a time when it was unlikely other parishioners would be around and still a long while before Belle, who was still staying in Marilyn's guest room, woke up. It had been quiet for a full minute and Marilyn feared the priest, softly breathing on the other side of the partition, had fallen asleep.

"Is this your first confession?" the priest finally said.

"It is."

"I see. OK, just tell me what's on your mind then."

"I met someone in a bar."

"A _bar?_ " the priest interrupted, his voice squeaky and cross, as though being in a bar was a mortal sin in itself. Marilyn imagined him grasping his rosary and nervously running the beads between his thumb and forefinger as a talisman against the tawdry details to come. Her mother used to do that on those nights when her father didn't come home and Marilyn, who never had a rosary, had adopted the habit with an old shoelace with knots tied in it when she was too young to understand its meaning.

"Yes, a bar. And I think this person may be responsible for a man's death. His murder, actually."

"Why are you here, then?" the priest said softly. "Why haven't you gone to the police?" His sense of outrage seemed to have vanished, even though he had surely concluded that the "woman in a bar" was Marilyn herself.

"I've thought about it, but I don't have any proof." _Ugh_ , Marilyn thought. _That's such an absurd thing to say._

"It's the police's job to get proof. You have suspicions; tell the police, let them investigate."

Marilyn saw the priest's point, but still had reservations. The truth was, she was beginning to like Belle, and she didn't want to judge her too harshly. She knew what it was like to be close to someone who was abusive, though she didn't know whether Eddie's abuse stemmed from alcoholism, as her father's had, or simply from being a pimp. On the other hand, Belle _had_ killed Eddie, and now she was sleeping in Marilyn's guest room. Yet Marilyn had had no trouble reconciling those two facts. First, she felt perfectly safe around Belle. Second, the rest of The Hookers had filled her in once Belle had fallen asleep at the bar. As it turned out, she wasn't, in fact, a prostitute. But she _was_ the mother of Eddie's son, and despite her youth, she had begun to expand her matronly role to the women in Eddie's employ. The prostitutes knew it was out of solidarity for _them_ , not what they did for a living, and they respected that. They looked up to Belle, and the youngest ones were starting to regard her as a mother figure. Belle had even organized the basketball team, and if she was at all concerned about her reputation from being associated with a group of professional streetwalkers, she didn't show it. The women begged Belle to stop when she showed up one day with a black eye, but she had such a defiant attitude that they grew emboldened by it. They crowded around Belle and hugged her, refusing to be intimidated by the swollen, purple bruise or the burst blood vessels in her eye. So the relationship between Belle and the women had become symbiotic, and given the choice to support Eddie or them, Belle chose to support them. She also felt partially responsible for their situation, as though just being with Eddie was contributing to this shit storm. And that was the kind of character that Marilyn respected, too, and she thanked The Hookers for telling her the truth.

Marilyn squinted, trying to make out the priest's figure behind the screen. "It could have been justifiable," she said. "In fact, I have reason to think that it was. The victim was a serial abuser and a pimp."

"Then make sure you tell the police that," the priest replied. He sighed and held it for a three-count and Marilyn thought he must be searching for an appropriate biblical quotation. Then he said "but remember this, my child. Murder is never justifiable in the eyes of the Lord. This woman should have gone to the police instead of taking matters into her own hands. And the victim's family needs to know that the murderer has been caught, and you may be able to help with that. That's not only better for the soul, it has the additional merit of avoiding those harrowing and sleepless nights. No one can truly have peace with such a burden on their conscience. The mark of Cain carries with it a heavy load. This applies to the murderer _or_ the witness. Or...the accomplice."

 _No doubt about where his feelings lie,_ Marilyn thought. _But he has a point._ _I never thought to ask Jason how he coped_ _after he killed dad_ _._ _Surely it's been eating him up inside._ _But there's n_ _o need in putting his mind on murder_. _Maybe that's how he_ _does it_ _—_ _simply refusing to let his mind go there. Maybe that's how anyone who's ever gotten away with murder copes_ _with it_ _._

" _I_ had nothing to do with it," she said. "And my moral dilemma isn't the worst aspect of it."

"No?" The priest didn't sound convinced. "But the murderer's may be. Is he Catholic? Maybe you could convince him to offer his confession as well. Start him on the road to redemption in the eyes of God. The depth and breadth of Christ's forgiveness is unbounded, my child, but one has to begin by trusting Him."

" _She's_ Jesuit, so that's Catholic, too, isn't it? But I don't want to suggest confession or she'd know that I suspect her."

 _She?_ the priest thought, unnerved by the idea that it hadn't occurred to him that the murderer could be a woman. He had had this conversation a few times before, and even convinced two people to turn themselves in, but they were men, troubled by circumstances that they thought had left them no choice.

Marilyn stood up, taking the priest by surprise. He gave her a mild penance and told her to search her heart. Marilyn thanked him and left.

* * *

 _How is it_ , Marilyn wondered, _that I know two people who committed murder and I'm keeping it secret in both cases? Can this really be my life?_

She had thought of _that night_ many times over the years, of course, but she continually told herself that although Jason had murdered her father, she had forgiven him and that was that. Now, for the first time, she considered that it wasn't murder at all. The fact that Jason was defending her became paramount in her mind. His actions would surely be considered justifiable homicide—killing her father to protect her. And not only that; her father had a gun too, didn't he? So Jason was protecting Marilyn _and_ himself; there was no way this was murder. _Why didn't I figure that out before?_ she wondered. _I was so wrapped up in forgiving Jason that I didn't realize there was nothing to forgive him for._

She walked past _Eddie's Place._ Itwas closed now, of course, and there was crime scene tape across the front door, which would no doubt be stolen soon. The police would have to question the employees, Belle included, but they didn't seem to be in any hurry to do so. _They're probably looking into some shady business deal_ _first_ , Marilyn thought. _Maybe they already found something; why else would there be crime scene tape on the door if there wasn't a crime there?_ That made sense; it was hardly a stretch from Eddie being a pimp to having his hands dirty in any number of other vices—bribes, kickbacks, numbers, drugs. She wished she could get a look at Eddie's books and find some connection that would spell it all out but the police's forensic accountants had undoubtedly scoured them by now. _Prostitution?_ _Would that be reflected in the books?_ If so, The Hookers didn't seem concerned. They still milled around the bar for johns, still took them to _B_ _ay_ _Tower_ , a less-than-subtle motel down the street that the women called _By The Hour_ , only now the flunky handing over the key got 10%, payment up front, to keep him from going to the cops now that Eddie was dead. Word spread fast about that, and the women all expected to get approached by other pimps. _Hey, Eddie's dead, how about working for me? I'll give you a better deal and Tuesdays off._ The pitch was always the same; the women that agreed did so out of fear. The ones that didn't agree were made an example of and usually ended up agreeing anyway, or they were paid a sudden visit by the vice squad and were off the streets for six months. _Symbiosis_ , Belle had called it, between the pimps and the cops. A tolerable, but hardly friendly, relationship.

Marilyn found an all-night diner and ordered coffee and a slice of peach pie à la mode. She noticed a couple sitting at a nearby table, nicely dressed, grey suit and tie for the man, blue suit and bow tie, undone, for the other man, each of them with a coffee cup in front of them amidst a little pile of sugar packets and empty creamer tubs. They were cooing at each other, all smiles and whispers after what what Marilyn imagined might have been a first date, and they looked happy. She felt a pang of envy, but settled down and tried to apply the same logic she used with Jason to Belle's situation. Eddie's death, unlike her dad's, was still a mystery. This could mean that Belle was innocent, of course, but it was just as likely that she could be guilty. More so, in fact, when Marilyn considered the bloody skirt.

 _Maybe going to the cops is the right thing to do. But if they don't have suspicions about Belle, it's silly for me to have them._ _On the other hand, they don't know about that bloody skirt. And Belle would surely have gotten rid of it by now._

She shook her head in frustration, then beckoned for a refill and looked up to see a familiar face.

"Jody! I didn't know you worked here."

"Hi, Marilyn. Yeah, I've been here for a couple of months. Moonlighting—here and at Eddie's Place. I'm trying to put aside some dollars so I can move back home. One of my roommates, Samantha—you remember her, right?—works here too, part-time in the mornings. She clocks in when I clock out. We can all use some extra cash."

"I didn't know you worked at the bar."

"Part-time waitress, and I'm done before you show up, but this is my main gig."

"Hey," Marilyn said when she was ready for her next refill, "what time do you take your lunch break?"

Jody glanced at her watch. "In about a half-hour. Lunch is at 3, then I work 4 to 7. Why?"

"My college degree is in economics with a minor in accounting. I can help you and the other girls with your finances. And before you ask, no, I won't charge you anything. I haven't been able to find a job and I could use the work to keep my financial bona fides in shape. Just in case an offer comes my way."

Jody was instantly skeptical, having only known Marilyn for a few days, but she wanted to learn more. "Will you hang around?"

"Sure. Just keep the coffee coming and when you're free, we'll talk about it."

* * *

Castle, Beckett, Alexis and Jackson were seated in Castle's living room drinking brandy the night of Martha's funeral. They reminisced, and none of them had ever laughed so hard on such a sad occasion. But then the conversation quickly grew serious.

"She hated me for a long time," Jackson said to Castle. "And then she was pregnant, and suddenly she could bear speaking to me again. Not right away, of course, but she called me the first time she felt you kick. She was so happy to be a mom, and from then on, forgiving me was easy."

"I had no idea," Castle said. "I thought she didn't even know your name."

"That was a bit of an exaggeration, Rick. I was going to quit the agency to marry her, but I had to take off and remain in deep cover to protect some sources. I couldn't blame her for being mad, though, and I think she preferred at that point to just think of us as a fling. But being pregnant—I think it changed her."

"You _think?_ " Beckett said. "Of course it changed her! How could it not?" She sighed and added "I'm sorry, Jackson. I didn't mean to jump down your throat."

Jackson nodded his head. "I'm sorry too, Kate. I think my failure to understand that is what drove Martha and me apart in the first place. I didn't see a problem at the time because I was doing my job, and as far as I was concerned, her job was to have Richard and take care of him. I know that's a pretty old-fashioned idea these days, but at seventy-four years old, I have a lot of memories of when times were different. But you're never too old to learn, I always say."

"It's funny," Alexis said. "I was raised by a single parent because my own mother just didn't seem to care. Was that gender role-reversal? Maybe in the strictest or most traditional sense, but I never thought that. It just didn't matter to me." She turned to Castle. "You were exactly the kind of man— _parent_ _—_ that I needed to raise me. You always were." She hugged Castle and rested her arm on his shoulder.

"Nothing else I've ever done even comes close," Castle said.

"Strangely enough, I've never forgiven mom because I never thought I had to. Things were just the way they were, and I never questioned it. And I've never regretted it, either."

" _I_ forgave her. I had to; she was a flake, and it hurt me to know that she could be in your life if she simply wanted to. But I didn't want to carry around the kind of contempt I felt for her when we divorced. I thought it might affect you, and there was no way I was going to risk that."

Kate was going to mention how she forgave her father after he started drinking, but she decided against it. _Some secrets_ , she thought, _are_ _better off buried, even among famil_ _y_.

* * *

The more financial advice Marilyn doled out, the more enthusiastic Jody became. She had been breaking even only a year ago, but a couple of unforeseen expenses had put her bank account solidly in the red and she had long thought there was no hope. _W_ _ith Eddie dead_ , she thought, _I can_ _still turn tricks without having to_ _give him an_ _y of_ _my money_. _I_ _might_ _even_ _come out ahead_ _if I_ _get_ _my_ _own apartment_ _and_ _split the rent with one_ _or two_ _of the others_. She had never before been happy to hear that someone she actually knew had died. She felt frightened for a moment, as a deep-seated, and, she knew, quite irrational fear of ghosts popped into her mind. But she brushed them away and tried to concentrate on the future.

"How long do you think it will take me to save enough money to move back home?" she asked.

"It depends on a few things," Marilyn replied. "Let's get your pay stubs from here and talk about it and your other income. We'll be able to figure something out, I'm sure."

Jody went to work with a renewed sense of purpose. Marilyn, far too wired to sleep, left a ten dollar tip and walked around her neighborhood waiting for the sun to come up. She thought about Belle. Hearing Jody talk about going home to be with her family again had reminded her of what the priest said. After all, somewhere Eddie had a family too, no doubt—parents, siblings, maybe even another child. And despite the respect she had for Belle as a person, she would simply have to tell the police. Eddie may have deserved to die (though the priest would never agree), but the priest was right about one thing: Eddie's family deserved closure. Maybe Eddie's parents would even forgive Belle, considering she was protecting their grandson. Stranger things had happened in the annals of forgiveness. _But_ , she rationalized, _the Los Angeles police do_ _ **not**_ _need to know about Jason._ _The only family that needed closure_ _there_ _was me, and I have it._ The memory of her aunt and uncle went unheeded.

She spent the rest of the morning writing an email to Jason, every sentence dripping with frustration teetering on rage. She couldn't find a job, she had grown bored in New York, she had the responsibility of selling Katherine and Boyd's home, but most of all, she missed him. They hadn't even held each other in several months and Marilyn demanded to know when he would come to back to New York. Back to _her._ Or, if he had changed his mind, he should just tell her now and give them both a chance to move on.

 _Maybe he's already moved on_ , she worried.

She closed with a few lines about Belle and sent the email, feeling strangely relieved the moment it cleared her outbox.

 _That was a long time coming_ , she thought _. But is this catharsis I'm feeling because I'm sure he's going to return, or because I've given myself the freedom to leave him?_


	31. Chapter 31

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Thirty-One_

 _Fallout_

 _Send lawyers, guns and money, the shit has hit the fan.—_ Warren Zevon, _Lawyers, Guns and Money_

 _December 26, 2014_

Marilyn walked up to the police station slowly, hanging her head in despair. Despite having concluded she was going to turn Belle in, she had a few rough nights dueling with her conscience. She told Belle she was sick, and shut herself in her room even while Belle was out. She replayed the "confession" in her mind numerous times, going over the priest's arguments, rationalizing, lamenting, crying. She hadn't thought she could be capable of so emotional an outburst over a woman she had known only a few days, but she saw them as near kindred spirits, arm-in-arm, fending off the world's cruelties. It was as though Belle had replaced Jason, and here she was, keeping a terrible secret again as a shield against the irrationality of the rest of society. _Phonies_ , as Holden Caulfield called them, were all over the place.

 _Is murder rational?_ she asked herself, before realizing that she should have been asking if it was moral. Countless philosophers had pondered that very question over the centuries, the answer almost invariably being 'no.' But she knew that murder, while immoral, could have very real extenuating circumstances. _Belle must have had them as surely as Jason had_ , she thought, _and in this respect, the priest was right. Let the police discover them, and hope for the best._ So in the end, all of the turmoil of Marilyn's struggle had brought her here, confused and miserable, to the door of the twelfth precinct.

She had been here before, on the night her parents died, and she naturally gravitated back to it. In fact, she realized, it was fifteen years earlier to the day, and she wondered if that had some sort of psychological significance, a purging effect that her psyche was trying to initiate, dragging her body along with it.

The precinct house was only a few blocks from _Eddie's Place_ , which meant it was surely the responsible entity anyway. Her thoughts drifted back to _that night,_ to the fear and worry she had experienced and the stressful experience of being interrogated like a suspect. She didn't want Belle to have to endure that, but she knew there was no way to avoid it, and when she stepped off the elevator she was shaking.

Marilyn looked around.

She expected to see a desk at the entrance, like on _NYPD Blue_ (though she didn't remember if there was one before), and she was mildly disappointed when there wasn't. Nor was there the chaos she imagined that all police stations in New York constantly experienced—at the very least, a handcuffed malefactor doing the perp walk, scowling as he's pushed along by a cop, the very picture of a television cliché. She walked past a few desks, saw detectives hunched in front of computers or talking on the phone, but none of them looked up as she passed. Then she saw a man with a wide, impish grin offering a cup of coffee to a tall, striking woman who, despite her beauty, had the professional bearing of a detective. The woman smiled back at him, sweetly, lovingly, even, and there was something familiar about it to Marilyn, so she stopped.

The woman noticed her. "Can I help you, miss? This area is restricted—detectives only."

Marilyn shook her head and hurried out of the squad room. She was sweating and as she ran outside, she was hit by a blast of frigid air, which burned in her lungs. She unbuttoned her jacket and unwound her scarf, then leaned against the building and took a few deep breaths.

 _Her name's Kate,_ she thought, _but why do I know that?_

It only took a moment for her to remember the trips to the Met, and Kate's kind and patient help.

 _I can't do it_. _I just can't do it._

* * *

Espo's phone rang.

"It's a match," Lanie said. "The blood on the skirt belongs to Edward D'Arnet. DNA coming soon, but hopefully this gives you enough for an arrest."

"You're a doll," Espo said. "Hey!" he shouted as he hung up the phone, "the skirt's a match!"

"Let's roll," Beckett commanded.

"Excuse us," Castle said as he ran past Marilyn and piled into a car. He and Beckett drove away, tires squealing, followed by Espo and Ryan. A siren's wail filled the air and quickly grew fainter as the car disappeared into the night.

* * *

It was dark and cold, and a light snowfall had begun. Marilyn was standing at her door with the key in the lock and a cup of coffee in her left hand. She turned the key and heard steps running up from behind her. She panicked, and tried to thrust open the door and get inside to safety, but her wrist was grabbed from behind.

"Melissa Curve?" came a voice.

 _That's Kate,_ Marilyn thought as the panic diminished. The hand on her wrist spun her around.

"What the hell?"

"Oh," Beckett said. "I'm sorry. I'm a detective with the NYPD." She held up her badge and Marilyn looked away. "Does Melissa Curve live here? We were told that she does."

"I don't know anyone by that name," Marilyn said. Then it hit her. _Belle Curve._ She smiled at the joke.

" _I'm_ Melissa Curve."

The voice was right behind them. Marilyn's chest tightened as Kate told Belle she was being arrested for the murder of Edward D'Arnet. She read Belle her rights, handcuffed her, and loaded her into a car.

Marilyn came inside and plopped down on her bed, exhausted.

 _I'm off the hook_ , she thought, _so why do I still feel so bad?_

* * *

The interrogation room was small, hot and brightly lit. There was a large one-way window and a table with a small metal ring welded on it for handcuffs. All of it designed to intimidate, Belle reckoned. Castle and Beckett sat across from Belle with their arms folded. Belle's skirt, still stained with Eddie's blood, was between them.

"So you're agreeing to talk to us without an attorney?" Beckett said. Belle nodded.

"Very well. So now that you've had your phone call, we can get started. How long have you known Edward D'Arnet?"

"It was four years in August," Belle said.

"And you had a child together, right? A son? Where is he?"

"You're asking _now_?"

"When should we have asked?" Castle said.

"How about before dragging my ass down here?"

"We can make arrangements if he's in day care," Beckett said. "You don't need to..."

"He's with my mother. She's got him for the foreseeable future. She'll be taking him back to Cincinnati."

"You expected not to be available for your son?" Castle asked. He adjusted his chair, sliding the metal legs loudly across the tile floor. Belle winced, pursed her lips and nodded.

"I figured I'd be a guest at a state-run facility shortly," she said stoically.

"Why? Are you feeling guilty about something?"

"Only about my guilt. You arrested me for Eddie's murder. No need for this rigamarole; I confess. Or," she pointed at the bloody skirt, "did you think you found that by chance?"

"So it _is_ yours? Are you saying you _planted_ it behind the bar?"

"If I was truly trying to get away with murder, don't you think I'd have burned it or something?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Beckett said. "Murderers can be a pretty twisted bunch. We've seen them keep all sorts of mementos from their...activities."

"But I didn't keep it, I planted it."

"Why not just turn yourself in if you were so eager to assuage your guilt?" Castle asked. He narrowed his eyes, tried to look like an enforcer.

Belle didn't buy it. She thought for a minute, then said "believe it or not, I _wanted_ to be arrested in public. I wanted the humiliation. I deserved it."

"That's some pretty deep-seated guilt you're carrying."

Beckett kicked Castle and shot him her _be more sensitive_ look.

 _You're the one who essentially called her twisted_ , Castle thought.

"He's the father of my son!" Belle snapped. "Of course I feel guilty. And the guilt's even worse knowing that I deprived my son of his mother, too, with my selfish and heinous act. Once I realized that, I knew that I had to suffer. A life sentence is only the beginning of my penance for this foul deed."

She held her hands up to her face and began to cry. "We'll be back in a bit," Beckett said. In the squad room she took Castle aside and said "she's talking like an evangelist who's apologizing for his sins on TV." He nodded and said "yeah."

* * *

Marilyn answered the door with a yawn. Jody was standing there with snow on her hat, shivering.

"Sorry if I woke you up," Jody said, "but a couple of days ago Belle asked me to give this to you if she was arrested. And tonight she called me from the police station, so here."

"A letter?" Marilyn said.

"Yes. You can see that I didn't open it. Go ahead, take a look."

"I trust you."

Jody smiled. "Belle said you were like that." She was wearing a coat so threadbare Marilyn wondered if it was any better than not wearing it.

"Would you like to come in for some coffee?" Marilyn asked. "Or a brandy?"

"I have to go to work. And it stopped snowing, so it's not so bad. But I wanted to tell you that I'm afraid of what might be in that letter. A lot of the girls have some pretty ugly suspicions about what happened to Eddie. And Belle has not only been arrested, she expected it? We're all scared. And I have to find a way home, out of this mess of a life I've made for myself, so if you're still willing to help me, then I'd like to accept."

She turned around and left before Marilyn could agree. Marilyn sat in front of her window and began to read.

 _Dear Marilyn,_

 _I'm sorry to ask you to bear this burden, but I can't trust anyone else. I'm sure you've already figured out that I killed Eddie. You'll only be reading this after I was arrested, but I plan to confess. It's best this way. My mother has my son—his name is Peter and yes, he's my rock—and she'll take him home to Ohio with her. He'll have a better life there, without me. I've asked mother to tell him that I died when he was a little boy. It's essentially true; I'll be headed to prison for life, I'm sure. It will give me plenty of time to prepare my soul for whatever's next._

 _I want you to know that I'm not a bad person. Eddie was on the street in front of our apartment, timing the girls, looking for ways to increase 'efficiency,' if you can believe it. It was so hateful for him to treat my friends like that. He treated everyone shamefully. Me. My friends. And my sister._

 _Jody._

Belle gasped. _That explains why Belle was so protective of the women._ _And w_ _hy she defied Eddie._

She continued reading.

 _And that only added to all the other B.S. I endured at his hands. Beatings, mostly. I had made up my mind to leave him, but suddenly I was pregnant. Eddie said he wanted to get married, but he never actually proposed. Then Jody came out to New York because there wasn't enough work in Cincinnati. I got her a job at the bar and everything was OK, but she was still having trouble making ends meet. And I was still oblivious to Eddie's other "business." After a while, Eddie...approached her. He tried to turn my beautiful baby sister into a whore!_

 _Jody told me about it because she was afraid that I might be one, that Eddie was controlling me by being my pimp. That's how I learned the truth about Eddie. He was, as I told you at the bar, a "mean, miserable pimp." I told him that Jody was strictly off-limits, but he didn't care—he approached her again. Told her she could make enough money to be comfortable, even in Manhattan. I snapped. I took a knife from the bar and stabbed him. Second degree murder, perhaps; no 'malice aforethought,' but I don't even care. Does God care? The fifth commandment doesn't say anything about degrees._

 _Now for the burden. Please do not feel that you need to do anything at all, but if you can keep an eye on Jody, and maybe the other girls, too, make sure they're doing okay, I would really appreciate it. You opened your home to me, and I'll never forget it. You have such a good heart, and if you can find it in your heart to do this...well, only good things can come from it. I've told Jody she can trust you and she should take you up on your offer to advise her financially. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. Then, when she's saved some money, she can move back home. This city is no place for her. It's too vile, too corrupt. Look what it did to me._

 _Lastly, I wanted to thank you for everything. You weren't embarrassed to be my friend. You didn't judge me, you didn't hate me and you treated me with respect. Do you think you can find it in your heart to forgive me?_

 _Belle_

The tightness in Marilyn's chest vanished, along with the guilt she had felt at nearly turning in her friend.

"I forgive you, Belle," she said, and she looked out the window as the snow resumed its soft, silent descent.

* * *

"Why did you do it, Melissa?" Beckett asked.

Belle had thought of that for a long time, of course, going so far as to tell Marilyn about it in a letter she hoped Jody was delivering tonight. Now she was facing the dilemma she had only thought about for two weeks, wondering if she should tell Kate about the beatings, or plead simple bloodlust. If she mentioned the beatings, there was no way to corroborate that without involving The Hookers. She hadn't seen a doctor or filed a police report. She didn't take pictures, either, and now she regretted it all. Jody? That could work, though it could be construed as one sister helping the other. She could be treated as an accomplice, not a witness.

Bloodlust was tricky, too. It might get her to the punishment portion of her life more quickly; she genuinely felt that it was the only way to cleanse her soul. But it could also get her sent to an asylum, a punishment she not only didn't want, she truly felt she didn't deserve. So she had to have an explanation that took into account her state of mind without the sanity of that mind being called into question.

Nor could she say he was a drug addict. It wasn't true, and they would surely have tested him for it anyway. If she was going to lie, she had to make it impossible to disprove.

She decided on a fourth option. She looked straight at Beckett and hoped her eyes conveyed her sorrow.

"He was cheating on me."

"Cheating on you?" Beckett shouted. "You killed him for _infidelity?_ "

"To me, no. To my son, yes. He ceased being a father when he chose to be an adulterer. I didn't want my son to be raised by such a man."

"So you leave him, you don't kill him," Castle said.

"I chose not to," Marilyn said. "In the heat of the moment, I lost control."

 _At least that much is true,_ she shook her head and dropped her chin to her chest in quiet contemplation.


	32. Chapter 32

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Thirty-two_

 _Cheers!_

" _If you want something you've never had, you must be willing to do something you've never done."_ —Thomas Jefferson

 _January 2, 2015_

Marilyn was having coffee every morning during Jody's shift at the diner, and Jody spent her lunch break talking finances with Marilyn. Belle had been in jail since her confession, of course, and due to her confession and the lack of a trial because of it, she was due to be transferred to prison soon.

Marilyn was surprised by how much she missed her. Belle had been her only real friend besides Jason, and now both of them were absent from her life. She thought about visiting Belle in jail, but decided against it. Jody went, once, but she came back crying and depressed, saying it would be 'a cold day in hell' before she returned. Marilyn wanted to tell her that she should consider forgiving her sister, but it seemed like so much proselytizing, and she didn't like that idea. Besides, there were myriad reasons Jody might not want to return. The other inmates, stark symbols of the reality of the place, might only serve to drive home the reason Belle herself was there, and Belle decided to empathize with Jody.

A week later, Jody plopped down at the table and said "I'm screwed."

"What's wrong?" Marilyn asked. "Anything I can help with?"

"Not unless you know of a really cheap, vacant apartment. Samantha was busted and our landlord is evicting us. Says he thought Samantha was a professional woman who would be able to pay the rent. I told him she was, but he took it the wrong way, big surprise, and the next day, I came home to an eviction notice on my door. Not that it makes a difference. With no roommate, I'd have to break the lease anyway."

Marilyn felt a surge of happiness. "I have an empty room in my apartment," she said. "The one Belle was using. It's yours if you want it."

"Really?" Jody said. "That would be _great!_ How much do you want for it?"

"Half of what you're paying now. Rent-controlled, too. I'm serious about wanting to help you."

Jody moved in the next day.

* * *

Martha was almost apoplectic.

"You bought a _bar_ , Richard? What on earth possessed you to do that?"

"Not just any bar, mother," Castle said, "but a New York institution and former speakeasy. _The Old Haunt._ You remember, don't you? I wrote most of my first book there."

"I don't care if it's _Rick's Cafe Americain_ , I don't like the idea."

"Why not?"

"Because it will eat up too much of your time! Now I give you credit for you decision to stop going there after Alexis was born, but now you'll have to be there all the time. Being a business owner takes commitment, and that's time you could be spending with Alexis, and writing—your two most important priorities right now. And what do you even know about running a bar or keeping the books?"

"Not a thing," Castle admitted, "and that's the beauty of it. I bought it, but I'm leaving it in good hands. I've already spoken to the manager, and he's agreed to remain in his job. It's breaking even, too. I had my lawyer confirm that before I signed anything. If I make a good hire or two, it could even start to turn a profit, so it's an investment _and_ a tax shelter. Plus, you're right about Alexis being my most important priority right now. This will help secure her future."

There was a pause while Martha pondered what to say next. She shook her head.

"I know when I'm beaten," she sighed. "Just tell me that you'll use common sense, Richard, and not let this eat you alive."

"I promise," he chuckled. "Common sense it is."

* * *

 _January 14, 2015_

Marilyn was as frustrated as ever by not having a job, but she was enjoying tutoring Jody and a couple of the other women. She had started having them over in the evenings, she set out tea and cookies, and she asked them how things were going. In doing this, she was both fulfilling her promise to Belle, who was never far from her thoughts, and flexing her financial muscles, which, she feared, might have atrophied by now. They hadn't, though, and her pupils, enthusiastic and earnest, made it a joy.

"I wonder what's going to happen to the bar," Marilyn mentioned to Jody one evening. "They removed the police tape, but it's still locked."

"My mom's trying to find a buyer," Jody said. "It's slow going."

"Your _mom_ owns the bar?"

"Yeah. She bought it because Eddie couldn't finagle a loan. How Melissa ever talked her into doing it, I'll never know. But she was pregnant at the time, and Eddie was working two jobs to try to make ends meet. Still, they were barely scraping by, so Melissa probably asked my mom for help. Mom pays the rent, and as far as I know, Eddie was sending her a check every month to cover the payment."

Marilyn shook her head. "That's totally unfeasible. Was your mom paying the expenses, too? Inventory, salaries, taxes, or was Eddie handling that?"

"I have no idea."

" _I_ have an idea," Marilyn said.

* * *

 _January 22, 2015_

"Mom, this is Marilyn, my roommate."

Rhonda Curve held out her hand and smiled. "Pleased to finally meet you," she said. "Jody's told me you're something of a godsend. Clearly He heard my prayers."

"The pleasure is mine," Marilyn replied as she shook Rhonda's hand. "Here, please have a seat. Would you like some tea?"

"Thank you."

Marilyn had almost said _I'm so sorry about Melissa_ , but she thought better of it. She brought over a pot of Earl Grey that had finished steeping a few minutes ago and some shortbread cookies.

Rhonda was likely in her mid-fifties. She had black hair with wisps of pure white at the temples, and her eyes were ice blue, like Jody's. She held her cup daintily, though without the extended pinky of the cliché, and sipped her tea daintily, too. They made small talk for a while before Rhonda said "shall we get down to business?"

"Sure," Marilyn said. "I've taken a look at Eddie's books and I'd like to make you an offer."

Rhonda looked at Marilyn suspiciously. "You have that kind of money?"

"Me and the bank. I can put down 10% and secure the loan with other liquid assets." _Like cash._ _It might n_ _ot_ _be_ _as good as gold, but it'll_ _do._

"OK, that's good to know. How much do you know about running a business?"

 _I_ _s_ _she_ _going to reject_ _my_ _offer because she_ _thinks_ _I_ _can't_ _run the bar_ _?_ Marilyn wondered. _That makes no sense if she's truly desperate to sell. Maybe she already has other offers on the table. I definitely don't want to get in a bidding war. Either she takes my offer or I thank her and move on._

"I took enough classes in college to be confident in my skills," she said. "Accounting and management, to be specific. Plus, the bartender I have in mind has worked there before, and I can get the same waitresses, too. I've already let them know I'd be making an offer and I got verbal agreements from all of them."

"Including Jody?"

"Yes, but it's strictly voluntary. I'm not going to hold her feet to the fire or anything."

"The plan," Jody said, "is for me to work there part-time, in the evening, like before, while I live here. But I've already told Marilyn about my plans to move back home. It won't be too much longer. She's really helped me get things together, mom."

A slight smile appeared on Rhonda's lips. "How soon do you want to move forward?" she asked.

"Right away, if possible," Marilyn said. "We can meet with a lawyer whenever you'd like, but the sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned."

"You know how much I'm asking for it?"

"I do. Here's my offer. I think you'll find it fair. I also have a letter from the bank affirming my line of credit."

She slid a piece of paper across the table and Rhonda looked at it and nodded. "We have a deal,'' she said, and she and Marilyn shook hands.

"Thank you so much," Marilyn said.

"Thank _you_ , Marilyn." After a minute of awkward silence, she added "can I have a few minutes with my daughter?"

"Of course," Marilyn replied. "I'll go for a walk."

Rhonda waited until she heard the door click before she said "I want you to come home _now_ , Jody. I can pay for it from the money I get from Marilyn. You need to come home. You need to be with your family."

"No," Jody said, "not yet. I want to be able to leave here knowing that I'll be fine when I get back home and I'm on my own again. And say what you will about Marilyn, she really _is_ helping me."

"Say what I will? What do you think I would say? Marilyn seems perfectly nice."

"Oh. I just thought that since Melissa lived here, you might have a problem with her."

" _What?_ " Rhonda said. "I didn't know that."

"She didn't tell you? She moved in after she...after Eddie died. She and Marilyn met at the bar and became friends. After that night, Melissa couldn't go back to her apartment, so Marilyn let her live here."

"So she opened her home to _both_ of my daughters?"

"Yes. She's a nice person, mom. She helped Melissa and she helped me and now she wants to help you, too, by buying the bar from you. Sure, to her it's an investment, but I know how badly you need to sell, and as soon as I told her you owned the bar, she saw a way to help, by buying it. She's a nice person and a _good_ person, too. She's teaching me how to make smart financial decisions. It turns out I was doing OK, but just by planning better I've been able to get a little bit ahead. Not a lot, but I'm going to take what I learned and apply it when I get home."

Rhonda sighed. "I'm going to see your sister tomorrow," she said. "You should come with me."

"I can't," Jody lied. "I have to work."

* * *

 _March 10, 2015_

Everything was ready. Marilyn had worked tirelessly to get the bar ready to open. The only change to the exterior was the removal of the _Eddie's Place_ sign and the installation of a new one. The Hookers and Joe stood beneath the sign and Marilyn gave a thumbs up to Jody, who was watching from inside. A moment later, the neon-filled tubes glowed to life.

 _Barbelle's._

The Hookers, who had come to see Belle's situation as one of supreme sacrifice for their well-being, were delighted. They all piled inside and crowded around the bar.

"It's so good to be standing here again," Joe said as he tied on his apron.

"Oh, absolutely," Marilyn agreed from her bar stool.

"You're first, Marilyn," Jody said. "It's only right for the new owner to have the first drink."

"Happy to. What do you say we get started with a brandy?"

"My pleasure," Joe said. He filled a snifter with Marilyn's favorite _Hennessy VS_ and surprised her by producing a bag of Oreos to accompany it.

Marilyn laughed and took a sip. "Now, everyone grab a drink," she shouted over the cheers. "I want to make a toast."

A few minutes later, everyone was holding a glass.

"I stole this from an episode of _Columbo,_ " Marilyn said. She cleared her throat.

"Here's to friendship, ripe and long. Here's to voices raised in song. Here's to a long and thirsty night. Here's to the stuff"—she held up her glass—"that makes it _right!_ "

And with that, the bar was rechristened.


	33. Chapter 33

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Thirty-Four_

 _The Prime Color_

 _July 26, 2015_

" _Emeralds," said the rabbit. "Emeralds make a lovely gift."_ —Maurice Sendak, _Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present_

Jason was already mad at having been trapped in England so long filming _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ The production had been plagued by problems—uncooperative weather, a crew strike, financial worries. Then the director had been replaced when the studio was worried about the pace of the film, and they essentially had to start from scratch. But with filming finally completed, he could get back to New York for a while.

That was more important than ever. He had gotten another angry email from Marilyn, wondering when he'd come to see her. It alternated between affection and anger. She loved him, she needed him, but if he couldn't make time to see her, he should just tell her. He had, of course, offered to fly her to England, but she had a new job and couldn't take time off yet.

She closed by telling him about her new roommate. _Her name's Jody_ , _but she's not a prostitute._

 _Why would I even think that?_ he wondered. _And what happened to Belle?_

He was about to book a reservation on a flight to New York so he could spend some much needed time with Marilyn and maybe convince her to accept some financial help, but a text arrived. He was needed at the studio in Hollywood in two days. No elaboration.

He stewed on the flight home to Los Angeles and seethed on the way to the studio. Fortunately he was only needed for a little PR and a quick interview with _Entertainment Weekly_ about the latest Shakespeare wave going around. He patiently explained that he had loved _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ since he read it in high school, was proud to play Puck, and, naively, predicted boffo box office.

"Shakespeare is timeless," he said. "People will always go see his plays on the big screen."

He was out of there in less than an hour. That night he laid in bed and worried that he was losing Marilyn. He read the letter again, parsing her strange prose to discern what was really bothering her. _She's not a prostitute_ still struck him as worrisome. It wasn't something one would say as an introduction unless there was some reason to think Jody _was_ a prostitute. And although Marilyn admitted that she hadn't gotten a job on Wall Street and was working in a _bar_ , Jason's ego didn't allow for the possibility that she felt professionally unfulfilled. She told him she was getting by and he didn't ask questions. He just thought she must be waitressing or bartending and she hadn't told him out of embarrassment. Had he thought it through, he might have wondered if Marilyn's defensive posture was overcompensation, trying vainly to cover the fact that _she_ was a prostitute. But his subconscious refused to consider it and it kept his mind firmly ensconced in simpler, more naive possibilities. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling while rationalizing his priorities and ignoring hers. It was warm for late December, and he turned on a fan and listened to it buzz, then yawned and turned his thoughts back to Marilyn.

 _So she must be having trouble making ends meet. That explains the roommates. People had been sharing homes for decades for exactly that reason. In fact, I'm **glad** Marilyn's making a new friend._ _Jody **must** be a friend_ _or Marilyn wouldn't be so eager to defend her. Maybe she wanted a friend in Belle and when it didn't pan out, she found a new roommate._

He trusted that the mystery was solved and thought about his own sorrow. Their time together before the movie, a weekend here and there when he could get to New York only made him want her more. Yet she was growing aloof, and he was starting to panic. He always bought irises for her, but even their time-tested charm seemed to have worn off. They went through the same perfunctory motions each time and soon the trips became little more than an opportunity to have sex. Marilyn seemed more and more detached, and after they made love she always wanted to go to sleep. Had he paid closer attention he might have realized it was only when he was going on about his successful career that she tuned out. He began to suspect that she was hiding something from him again, like in the days before she opened up about her father's alcoholism, and because he didn't want to go through that again, he had gotten in the habit of leaving before she woke up. He never lied to her in the notes he left—he usually had to catch a plane—but he never woke her, either. And he never asked her what was bothering her.

To Marilyn, the flights, both literal and figurative, were a symbol of the growing chasm in their relationship. Jason was always working, always emailing from someplace new, often hanging out with celebrities. She saw his picture on the cover of a tabloid once, all smiles in Honolulu with the cast of _Hawaii Five-O_ after a guest appearance, and it took all her resolve not to buy the rag. He had called her and told her about it, his first television gig, and he was sure her enthusiasm was feigned. Later, she watched the episode with indifference and tried not to be bitter. Marilyn wanted to be happy for Jason, but he had never been honest enough with himself to admit that he wasn't happy at all, and Marilyn sensed that. He was trying too hard, spouting Hollywood cliches about his success that she didn't believe.

For Jason, the sense of community he longed for, comrades drawn together from a love of their craft, was entirely absent. The people he worked with flitted from job to job, and his own sense of impermanence grew every time he started a new job with new actors, new "friends." A couple of his co-starts from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , noticing that showed up alone at every party, had offered to set him up, but he refused, though he never mentioned that he had a girlfriend. To outsiders, Jason was leading a lifestyle they would envy, but ultimately he was as unfulfilled by his work as Marilyn had been by _not_ working. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that despite the trappings of an emerging fame and the money that accompanied it, he _needed_ her—not just for hook-ups a few times a year, but every day. That, he was sure, was the key to happiness for them both—being together all the time, like when they were kids. Their passion for each other could be rekindled, but only as long as Jason created the opportunity to do so. The same naivete that made him think his movie would be the next _Avengers_ made him think he could simply show up and everything would be fixed.

He couldn't sleep. He turned off the fan, put his phone in the drawer next to his bed, unplugged the TV and the cable modem. Marilyn would approve, he felt sure, but none of it helped. He lay there, thinking about her one minute and his career the next. And then, as the sun was just starting to rise, he realized that his melancholy was caused by only one thing: _guilt._ He climbed out of bed and spent the day feeling sorry for himself and wondering how Marilyn would feel if he just showed up in New York and said he was back for good. He would be grateful if she felt relieved, he could handle it if she was indifferent, but he wasn't sure how he'd react if she was angry. If she _was_ angry, though, it would only be worse the longer he stayed away. Ultimately, he concluded that she blamed him for their rut. He had control over where he lived and he had promised to move back to New York. Sure, he was a kid when he promised that, but he had never rescinded it either.

So this was fixable. He wrote a few drafts of a long letter, trying to explain how he felt, fruitlessly searching for the right way to apologize. His fifth and final draft found its way into the shredder with the previous ones. Finally he knew exactly what he had to do.

He wanted to make an early start the next morning, so he climbed into bed at 9 PM. Yet the early mornings and late nights making a movie, plus the fact that he hadn't slept the previous night had caught up to him. He needed to sleep deeply, and he popped a pill to get himself there—a mild barbiturate prescribed by a doctor the studio kept on call—and he spent the time until he dozed off wondering just how much Hollywood would corrupt him if he gave it a chance.

* * *

"I'm leaving for New York," Jason explained. "I'm going to propose to Marilyn, and if she says yes, then I'm moving there for good."

There was silence in the Tompkins household for three seconds. Then Karen mouthed 'finally,' and hugged him, a long hug, full of motherly love and not a little bit of worry. She drew back with tears in her eyes and kissed him on the cheek.

"I'm so happy for you!" she finally said.

"Thank you, mom."

"When are you going to pop the question?"

"On her birthday. What better way to say happy birthday can there be?"

They hugged, but Jason's father had remained silent and he turned away when Jason tried to shake his hand.

"Don't you have anything to say, Max?" Karen said.

"You're _still_ seeing that _girl_ _?_ " Max said. "I thought you had broken up!"

A panicked look washed over Karen's face. Jason, wanting to give a measured response, waited for a moment to let his anger pass.

"Broken up?" he finally said. "Not a chance."

"We thought you had come to your senses, Jason."

"Leave me out of this!" Karen shouted.

"Why would you even _say_ that?" Jason said, his anger surging again.

"You haven't even mentioned her for years!"

"That's because every time I do, you say terrible things about her! You can't even bring yourself to call her by her name. And you've been trying to break us up since we lived in New York. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but your fatherly wisdom didn't take then and it's not taking now."

He stood up, grabbed his coat and kissed his mother.

"Jason, please stay," Karen said.

"I'm sorry, mom," Jason said. He reached into his pocket and tossed an envelope on the table. "Happy Anniversary. Glenn Close in _Sunset Boulevard_ at the Fonda Theatre. Have fun."

He left.

* * *

 _July 27, 2015_

Rodeo drive was home to the most vaunted shops in Beverly Hills. It catered to the rich, the wannabe rich, and the tourists. Gucci, Prada, Piaget—Jason ignored them all. What few parking spots existed were taken up by the usual suspects: Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, Ferraris and a black Bentley Continental convertible that was so beautiful even Jason—who still had his beloved Jeep—had to stop for a moment and daydream. So many dollars had passed from the poor and the middle class to the rich in this town and then stayed there, cycled endlessly among imported cars, class A stocks, multi-million-dollar homes, movie studios and heirs to the car dealers, the stockbrokers, the real estate agents, actors and studio heads, that it would easily surpass the GDP of some countries. Jason had worked constantly in plays since graduating from USC, but now, having made his third movie, he had built enough wealth to buy Marilyn the ring she deserved and then he could leave Hollywood and its temptations behind for good. He crossed the street and entered the Harry Winston salon.

The sales agent, young and enthusiastic but professional, presented Jason with a staggering number of choices; round, oval, pear shaped, different cuts, weights and clarities. There was even one called _Belle._

 _Who knew buying a ring was so hard?_ he wondered. But he was an artist to the end, and he thought most of the rings looked too much like each other and too much like all other engagement rings he had ever seen. To his eye, they were simply an indistinct clump of diamonds that you had to look at from close range to discern any difference, and in his artist's heart, he wanted so much to be different.

And then he saw them. Three emerald rings, stunning in their contrast to the diamonds. And one of them was called _Central Park._ He looked at that one for a while, wondering if Marilyn would like it. _He_ did not. It had a brilliant emerald setting, off-center, with two accompanying diamonds, one to the side and another, smaller one, lower. It seemed as though the small diamond had slipped from its rightful place and was in danger of dropping off altogether. And the more he looked at it, the more he hated it. He loved the idea of giving Marilyn a ring called _Central Park_ , though. It had meant so much to them over the years, from long walks, to Christmas meetings to his first encounter with Socrates van Gogh. But in the end, this was Marilyn's engagement ring, and all other considerations slipped into irrelevance. Thirty minutes later he walked out with Marilyn's ring—a rectangular emerald with a diamond on either side, set in platinum and gold. Emerald for her eyes; diamonds, platinum and gold for her.

* * *

Castle took Beckett aside at the launch party for _In Perpetual Heat_ and handed her a box. She tore it open and stared at the earrings inside for thirty seconds before her words started working again.

"Castle, are you kidding me?" she cried. "I can't accept these!" _We're not even dating. Yet._

"Sure you can, Beckett," Castle said. "You were the inspiration for the novel. Your personality is on every page. And besides, it's a tradition. I always buy a gift for my sources when I finish a book." _I hope she doesn't see right through that._

"But Castle...emeralds?" _For little ol' me? Am I blushing?_

"Emeralds? No, Beckett, I'm sorry to disappoint you," he lied. "They're just highly polished chunks of jade. I got them from a street vendor during my last trip to Beijing. They're like fifty bucks, tops." _She'd better not have_ _them_ _appraised. I'm not taking_ _them_ _back when she finds out_ _I actually_ _spent_ _five_ _grand_ _on_ _her_ _and we're not even dating. Yet._

"A street vendor? Well, then I _am_ impressed!" _Street vendor my ass. Cartier doesn't sell on the street._

"Can I put them on?" Castle panted. _And run my fingers over your lobes? Geez, what the hell was_ _ **that**_ _?_

"I think they'd look better on me," Beckett deadpanned. _Of course you can. And you can caress my ears while you...eww, no._

"Ha, ha!" _Cramps! Finger cramps! Calm_ _ **down**_ _, Castle!_

Beckett removed the turquoise and silver earrings she was wearing and Castle, despite becoming rapidly dehydrated from the sweat pouring into his eyes, managed to put the emeralds on. Beckett pulled a compact out of her purse and held it in front of her face.

"Oh, they look great, Castle. Thank you." _They look great, Rick. Thank you._

"Thank _you_ , Nikki," Castle said with a wry laugh. _Thank_ _ **you**_ _, Kate._

* * *

 _Note: The title of this chapter is from a quote by Pedro Calderon de la Barca: "Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises." The names of the rings from Harry Winston are real, and current at the time I wrote this. The Belle diamond was a happy coincidence; I had written the character before I discovered the diamond online. Also, it had more impact when this chapter was originally written, as it initially appeared several chapters before this when Jody hadn't yet been conceived._


	34. Chapter 34

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Thirty-Four_

 _Homecoming_

 _A man travels all over the world in search of what he needs and returns home to find it._ _—_ George Moore

"I'm home!"

The words sped through the ether of the apartment, bouncing off furniture and blasting through walls, honing in on their intended target like cruise missiles until they landed on the ears of six year-old Alexis Castle. She shrieked.

"Daddy! You're HOME!"

She tore through the apartment and into Castle's arms where she proceeded to break her personal record for kisses in a single minute.

"Did you sell a lot of books?" she whistled when she finally came up for air. She smiled, revealing a missing upper tooth.

"I did," Castle said. "A _ton_ of books. And my publisher said that it looks like _Tropical Storm_ will be on the _New York Times_ bestseller list! How about _that_?"

"Yay!" she cried, despite her ignorance of what a 'bestseller list' was.

Castle had only done one book tour before, when Alexis was too young to remember, and it tore him apart to be away from her. _Now, she remembers everything_ , he marveled, _and I'll surely have to do more of these._ He held her hands, remembering when she was born, and how she grabbed his finger with her whole fist. Now her hands were half the size of his own. He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow at her.

"What?" she asked.

"How about we play a game of laser tag?"

She laughed. "I thought you'd never ask, daddy. I've been practicing, though, so look out."

It was a warning Castle didn't heed. Alexis was everywhere—jumping up from the concealment of a couch, surprising him from behind, beating him to the shot. She was surprisingly quick for a six year-old, and she had an intuition that surprised and delighted Castle. Not wanting her to think he wasn't trying, he did score two points, but it was still a ten-to-two victory for Alexis.

"Vanquished again!" he declared. "You're just so much better than your old man."

Alexis held her gun over her head in glory. "How about we have some ice cream? Grandma bought pistachio."

He laughed at how thoroughly she was beginning to absorb his speech patterns. "Our favorite!" he said. "Let's do it."

* * *

July 30, 2015

It was a typically hot summer day in Manhattan. The air was humid and thick, and it floated by in waves, like a mirage. Marilyn felt as though each inhalation was coating her lungs with the accumulated gunk that drifted through Manhattan traffic in summer—steam, car exhaust, smoke from the occasional fire. She stood in front of her building on Tenth Street and glanced at her watch nervously.

 _It's 5:30 already. I should have taken the subway._

A Toyota Prius pulled up. "Did you call for an Uber?" the driver asked.

"Yeah," Marilyn said. "I need to go to JFK, please."

Traffic was light on tenth, but the moment the car turned left on Fifth Avenue, it was like all of Manhattan had unfolded in front of her. She closed her eyes and thought of her new favorite author, Virginia Woolf.

 _In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June._

It was from _Mrs. Dalloway_ , a book Marilyn had read a few months before, and loved. Despite the humidity and the sometimes overbearing crowds, New York could be lovely. Parks abounded; there were trees and flowers aplenty, and if you knew where to stand, the aroma of the world's cuisines floated by. It might be crowded, and it might not have the historical bonafides of London, but it was _home._

She was finally happy. The bar was nearly breaking even, and despite her initial skepticism, she enjoyed running it. The waitresses, all former prostitutes (she thought), worked hard for her, and she was now dispensing financial advice to eleven women, due, she was sure, to Jody's strong endorsement. She sold Katherine and Boyd's home, and, since they had owned it free and clear, she pocketed the entire sum. Adding that to her previous inheritance—which had benefitted from diligent saving and several shrewd stock purchases—meant her assets had grown considerably. And, to top it all off, it was her birthday. But all of that paled in comparison to the fact that she was on her way to pick up Jason, and bring him home. To New York. To her.

"You're really coming home?" she had sobbed into the phone a few days before. "This isn't a trick?"

"A trick?" Jason laughed. "No, of course not, sweetheart. I'm making good on my promise. It's shamefully late, but yes, I'm coming home. For good."

What followed was two days of frenetic activity. Marilyn got her hair done, scrubbed her apartment clean and purchased new sheets and towels. She bought Lawrence Olivier's _Hamlet_ on iTunes and put a 12-pack of Heineken in the refrigerator. Lastly, she filled three vases with fresh irises and placed them where they could bask in the warmth and radiance of the summer sun.

Jason's timing was perfect, Marilyn had decided. Rhonda would be by in a few days with a U-Haul to drive Jody back to Ohio. As Jody moved out, Jason could move in. That is, until they got a new place of their own.

"Marilyn? Ma'am? We're here."

She stepped out of the car and walked quickly to the terminal.

* * *

"I think," Jason said when they were in the limo, "that we shocked some people back there. I saw one woman covering her son's eyes, like he had never seen people kiss before. I hope we didn't corrupt him."

"I don't care if we did," Marilyn said. "You're _home!_ "

If they had been in a standard taxi, with a regular glass window, the driver might have gotten sick from the sappy hand-holding, cooing and kissing, and the constant declarations of love, like a phone call when all you can hear is one party saying "no, _you_ hang up!" and you want to die. After a while battling traffic, they heard the limo driver's voice intruding over the speaker.

"Plaza Hotel," he said.

"The _Plaza?_ " Marilyn almost shouted.

"Yeah," Jason replied. "It's only a short walk from there to the Holiday Inn."

She laughed and poked him in the ribs with her elbow.

"Hungry?" Jason asked after they registered. Marilyn shook her head.

"Let's just go to our room," she said. "We can always order room service later, if we want."

"OK, sounds good."

As they stood in front of the door to their room, Jason decided not to carry Marilyn over the threshold. _That'll happen soon enough_ , he thought.

They entered.

The room was filled with Irises. There were irises on the table, irises in vases, irises on the bed, irises on the countertops and irises on the dresser.

"I couldn't get a thousand yellow daisies," Jason said, "but I thought five hundred irises might suffice."

Marilyn knew what was coming. "This is the best birthday ever," she said.

If Jason could have taken Marilyn to a church and timed it so he asked her just as the bells tolled midnight, he would have. That would have given it the proper sense of drama, he thought, the right tone of seriousness that it deserved. But that left too much to chance.

He got down on one knee.

"Marilyn," he began, "you know how crazy I am about you. There is simply no scenario I can think of that doesn't involve us spending the rest of our lives together."

Marilyn nodded, and as she did so, she realized she was holding her breath.

"I guess we've been through as much emotion as any couple ever," Jason continued. "And we still love each other—more than ever in fact. And believe it or not, I knew I wanted to marry you the moment our hands touched when we were sharing cookies and milk on the day we met. It was just a childhood fantasy then, but it stayed with me, and it grew and matured and it never wavered. And now...well, I guess the only thing left to say is...Marilyn Singletary, will you marry me?" He stood, reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring, still in its box from Harry Winston. He held the ring out; an offering to Aphrodite from a humble peasant.

And there it was. The crushing weight of expectations falling on her head year after year, like Sisyphus' rock, was lifted. She had been wondering what was to come of their relationship, whether it could endure their separation any longer, whether she could wait even one more month for him to keep his promise. And now she no longer had to wonder, or worry. Jason was _here_ , for good, and they could finally begin their lives anew, as husband and wife.

"Of course I will," she managed to say.

Jason slipped the ring on. Marilyn gazed at it for a moment and the tension in her muscles that was holding her up let go all at once as she turned to goo in Jason's arms. He carried her to the bed.

* * *

Note: A thousand yellow daisies refers to _Gilmore Girls_. In season one, Max proposed to Lorelai with a thousand yellow daisies. They filled the room, which I thought was a bit much, so I cut the number in half. Obviously, the flowers Jason used had to be irises.


	35. Chapter 35

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Thirty-Five_

 _One Hundred Eighty Degrees_

 _The brave and bold persist even against fortune; the timid and cowardly rush to despair through fear alone—_ Publius Cornelius Tacitus

 _July 31, 2015_

"The ring is _gorgeous,_ " Marilyn said as soon as Jason woke. She held her hand in front of her face and dramatically batted her eyes, like an actress in a 50's movie.

"So you mentioned last night, oh, ten or eleven times," Jason said. "I'm glad you like it." He yawned. "What time is it?"

"Almost noon," she said as she nuzzled up to him and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Mmm," he said, "I haven't slept that late in a long time."

"Late maybe, but it was only about five hours. And it shows, a little bit."

"It does? How?"

"In your eyes. They're puffy and red, but don't worry, it's endearing. After all, we were still awake as the sun rose. Our first all-nighter."

"We had a lot to talk about."

"And we have a lot to do. What's first?"

"This," Jason said as he took Marilyn into his arms.

* * *

"This is the last of the champagne," Jason announced an hour later. He frowned as the poured the last few drops.

"You've heard of make-up sex?" Marilyn asked. They were in bed, staring into space, Marilyn draped over Jason like a comforter. "After a couple fights, when they make up, the sex is incredible. Well, this was 'I've missed you' sex. Still incredible, but none of the guilt of all that fighting in the prelude. And as far as I'm concerned, I never want to experience make-up sex. Ever."

"Neither do I. Here's to 'I've missed you' sex."

He held up his champagne flute and Marilyn clinked hers against it. The fizz when straight to Marilyn's nose; she wrinkled it at the gift from the bubbly Bacchanalian brew.

After lunch at the hotel restaurant they checked out and headed to Marilyn's apartment. Jason had two suitcases in tow.

"My lease is up next month," he explained, "but I'm already paid up. And my stuff has been packed and is on the road now. The movers should be here in a couple of days, so I'd better get a storage unit today. In the meantime, we can think about where we're going to live."

"And setting a date."

"Of course."

"Now," Marilyn said when they left the apartment, "let's go to Barbelle's."

"What's that, a gym?"

She laughed. "No, it's my bar."

"You have a bar? Do the regulars all say 'Marilyn!' as you come through the door, like Norm on _Cheers?_ "

"Actually, yes. And I'm a regular, but for a reason you don't know. I ownit."

"You _own_ it? You own a _bar?_ "

"Surprise!"

Jason looked confused. "I thought you were just scraping by," he muttered. "That's why I offered to help you financially. I just thought you were too proud to accept."

Marilyn raised her eyebrows. "What made you think that?"

"You told me you didn't have a job."

"I didn't have a job on _Wall Street_. That was pretty frustrating, considering the time and effort I spent studying and devoting myself to a financial career. But I was doing OK without working. Well enough to buy the bar, and own this apartment outright."

"How did that happen? Did you win the lottery or something?"

Suddenly Marilyn was faced with a dilemma of her own making. She had had plenty of opportunities over the years to tell Jason about her inheritance, but she always chose not to. It wasn't that she didn't trust him, it was that she wanted to be able to show him that she had the ability to work her way out of her own problems. Yes, she had gotten a sizable inheritance, but what had she done with it? She had gotten a college education, invested wisely in stocks, saved prudently and grown her windfall. And she was continuing to grow it, by investing in real estate and buying her own business. Now the only thing to do was to tell Jason and see how he'd react.

She told him in the cab. Everything was out now—her inheritance from her father, her investments ("I'm a value stock investor" she told him. "You should read Benjamin Graham; he was Warren Buffet's protégé."), her small cash inheritance from her aunt and uncle and the windfall from the sale of their house. She had spent very little and put the rest of it to good use, buying her own apartment outright and mortgaging the one next door, which she rented to a couple of the waitresses from the bar.

Jason listened patiently. The freak out that Marilyn was expecting never materialized.

"I'm happy for you," he said as the cab came to a stop in front of _Barbelle's._ "You're doing fantastic. This is _great_. I mean it."

He kissed her, then paid the cabbie and they went inside.

* * *

"Good afternoon, everybody."

"Marilyn!"

The chorus echoed off the walls and resounded in Jason's ears. It was just as Marilyn said; she was the Norm Peterson of _Barbelle's._ She and Jason took a seat at the bar and she introduced Jason to the various waitresses and to Rosa, the day shift bartender.

"This is a nice place." Jason said. "It seems upscale."

"It's not, really," Marilyn said, "but we're trying to create an atmosphere that attracts some Wall Street people. You never know where you can make a valuable business contact while still making a profit. The markups in this business are _huge._ "

"Shrewd. Like everything you've done. I'm really impressed, Marilyn."

They kissed, and the waitresses all said "ooooh!" like they were at a seventh-grade dance.

"Now," Marilyn said, "I'd like to tell you how the business works. But first..."

Rosa, hearing her cue, produced a brandy snifter, a bottle of cognac and a bag of Oreos. She filled the snifter, then produced a metal stand with two forked arms and an unlit candle at its base.

"Brandy?" Jason said.

"Technically it's cognac," Marilyn replied. "It's brandy, certainly, but to be called cognac, it has to come from the Cognac region of France. This is Rémy Martin XO. It was bottled in 1995—the year we met. A special cognac for our special occasion. And pretty hard to find, I might add."

She lit the candle and placed it on the base of the stand. Then she placed the snifter in the cradle created by the two arms, which held the glass at a 45 degree angle. Marilyn let the candle heat the cognac for a minute; it created a vapor almost immediately, misting the glass like a hot shower does a bathroom mirror on a cold winter morning. She slowly rotated the snifter, warming the cognac evenly and coating the glass, intensifying the aroma. After another minute, she lifted it and held it under Jason's nose.

"Breathe gently," she said, and he did so as he closed his eyes.

"Heavenly," he whispered, and she held the glass to his lips. He sipped; let the brandy dance on his tongue; swallowed as slowly as he could manage.

"And an Oreo chaser," Marilyn laughed.

That's the most exquisite thing I've ever tasted," Jason said, with a smile full of cookie crumbs.

Just then, Jody entered. She approached the bar and saw Marilyn talking to a man.

"Could this be—?" she began, and Marilyn nodded.

"Jason!" Jody shouted. She hugged him like they were old friends, rubbing her hands on his back and pressing her cheek against his.

"Um, hi," Jason said, a trifle embarrassed. He had a look on his face of regret and annoyance, like he had just stepped in something that was recently inside a dog.

"I'm Jody! Marilyn's told me all about you."

"Ah, of course!" _The one who's NOT a prostitute._ He smiled, an actor's smile he perfected when trying not to offend Vicki Jensen in high school. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Actually, Jody," Marilyn said, "I haven't told you _everything_ yet. Like this." She held her left arm out.

The shriek that escaped from Jody dwarfed her earlier outbursts. "My God," she said as she examined the ring. "It's so beautiful! Congratulations!" She jumped up and down before engaging in another round of hugs.

 _This woman must live on pure caffeine_ , Jason thought. _She's like a hummingbird...on caffeine._

Jody and Marilyn chatted while Jason had a beer.

"Are you playing tonight?" Jody asked, "or do you still need more alone time with your man?"

"I'm playing," Marilyn said. "I can't let you guys start the playoffs without me."

"Playing?" Jason said, turning around.

"I'm a Hooker," Marilyn said with a straight face. "We're _all_ Hookers." She swept her arm in front of her to include the waitresses like Belle had done.

Jason's jaw dropped.

"Don't worry," Marilyn giggled, "The Hookers are my basketball team. _Our_ team."

"Hookers?" Jason said. "Why, why, why?"

"Watch this."

All the Hookers in the bar took their cue from Marilyn and made their hook shot motions at slightly different times, arms craning wildly like a badly choreographed ballet.

Jason sighed. "OK," he said, though he felt far from OK now.

* * *

The squeak of rubber soles on the basketball court sounded like birds fighting, Jason thought. The game was in full swing, but his mind wasn't on it. He kept wondering what was really happening in Marilyn's life. She had been keeping so many secrets from him, and he worried that she was still holding on to the biggest one, the one that would end things between them, the one that started with a capital 'P.'

And yet, Marilyn _hadn't_ been dishonest. There was a great deal of information she hadn't exactly volunteered, but she wanted to—in person, though, not through email or chat or a Skype call. She told herself she didn't blame Jason for only now moving home because he hadn't actually broken his promise. But on some level, she _had_ blamed him. How long could he reasonably expect her to wait for him? And how did he think Marilyn would react if he was off having a career while she was just eking out a living doing who knows what?

And that was the crux of it. Jason was mystified, but he feared the worst. The clues were ominous, he thought— _her name is Jody, but she's not a prostitute. I'm a Hooker. We're ALL Hookers!_

 _What else could it be?_ he wondered. _She basically just admitted it. And what choice did I give her? She was desperate, and she turned to prostitution. And she made enough money at it to buy a legitimate business as a front. Her inheritance was BS, and I was a fool to believe her drunk of a father had any money to leave her. How can I ever forgive her?_

It never occurred to Jason that Marilyn had forgiven him for something much worse. He had come to rethink his role in her father's death, seeing himself as the hero who rode in and saved the day, only to be double-crossed in the end. So while Marilyn played, Jason feigned interest and sulked. He had taken feeling sorry for himself to a new level. And trusting the woman he professed to love did not enter his mind.

The whistle blew, and people were clapping. Marilyn came over to Jason and leaned her sweat-drenched body against him.

"Congratulations," he said.

"We lost, Jason," she sighed.

* * *

 _August 1, 2015_

The next morning Jason was awake early. Jody made waffles for everyone and Marilyn made coffee and put out strawberries and cream.

"Delicious," Jason said. "And I'm sorry, but I have to go. I have to get a New York agent, and I've got several of them to meet today." He stepped over some open cardboard boxes in the living room.

"Sorry about that," Jody said. "Marilyn and I are going to start packing today so I can move home."

"No sweat," he said, despite being elated that Jody was leaving.

"Dinner at seven?" Marilyn said, and Jason nodded on his way out the door while saying "sounds good."

Jason's first appointment wasn't until 1 PM. He immediately felt guilty for deceiving Marilyn, so he moped around the neighborhood for a while. He stopped at a bodega, then caught a cab and soon found himself sitting under the Oreo tree in the blazing heat of the summer, replaying their lives over and over in his head. And the more he thought about it, the more he began to understand. He had found her here, a lonely, depressed girl, and he had given her friendship thinking she would tell him to go to hell. But she had unexpectedly responded, and as they spent more time together her inhibitions withered away. Her confession in Central Park that her father was an alcoholic was a revelation, and when he moved to California, he felt secure in their love.

 _But I stayed away so long_ , he thought. _And in doing so, I've totally screwed up our relationship_. _I've made it impossible for her to be honest with me._

And as soon as he was honest with _himself_ , he began to feel better. _It's my fault_ , _not hers. I'm going to be man enough to admit it._ _That thing with the hookers_ _—_ _it can't be right. Not Marilyn. I trust her._

By the time he left for his appointment, there was only one thought running through his mind.

 _I still love her._

* * *

"I think he might already be getting cold feet," Marilyn said to Jody as they started packing. "He wasn't paying attention during the game last night. He actually thought we won."

"Really? But we lost by forty-three points. It wasn't even close."

"That's what I mean," Marilyn sighed.

"Maybe he's just not into sports."

"He's not. But this was more than that. I think he has something else on his mind. I thought he'd want to make love last night, but he just wanted to sleep."

"Then you're right," Jody said. "It's probably just cold feet. Post-proposal, pre-wedding jitters."

"Yeah," Marilyn replied. "At least I _hope_ that's all it is."

The day wore on, and despite a couple of fans, it had grown terribly hot, so Marilyn and Jody decided to break for some iced tea.

"They were going late last night," Jody said.

"They?" Marilyn asked. "Who's they?"

"The johns. I heard the door opening and closing regularly until about 2."

"Johns? What am I missing?"

"You don't know?" Jody said nervously. "Next door. Samantha and Tabitha. They're working from home now," she giggled.

"In _my_ apartment? I don't want to be landlord to a couple of prostitutes!"

"Marilyn, I'm so sorry. I thought you knew."

"God, they're forcing my hand. I have to give them an ultimatum, tonight. Take their clients elsewhere or find another place to live. If they're busted, I could be charged, too. The jails are probably full of naive landlords who innocently rented to nice women, only to have their doors taken down by the NYPD and a search warrant thrust into their faces just as they were sitting down to dinner. I'd rather not find out."

Jody laughed. "OK, that was a little melodramatic, but you're right. I hadn't thought of that. I hope they don't give you any shit."

"And another thing," Marilyn said. "Aren't they worried that johns will know where they live?"

"Why would they? They'd just think it's like any other brothel; a home owned by some pimp, protected by same."

"Somehow," Marilyn said, "that makes it worse. I'm no pimp."

* * *

Jason left his last interview at 6:20 confident that he had found his new agent. He got home just after seven.

"Sorry I'm late," he said.

"Oh, you're not," Marilyn said. "Dinner's still a few minutes away. Did you find an agent?"

"I did." He didn't elaborate. He was still trying to figure out how to apologize for his loutish behavior.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Marilyn tried asking for details of Jason's day, but his answers were curt and evasive. Jody began to feel uneasy.

"I've got to get to work," she said as soon as she finished eating. "My last shift at the restaurant! Just 9-to-1. I'll see you later, guys."

A moment later, the front door creaked open. "It does that sometimes," Marilyn told Jason. "I've _really_ got to get it fixed. Be a dear and close it while I clear the table?"

"Sure."

The door had opened halfway. Jason was about to close it when he spied Jody entering the apartment across the hallway. The one Marilyn was renting out.

 _Weird,_ he thought.

* * *

"You're kidding," Samantha said.

"Wish I was," Jody replied, "but Marilyn has a point. She's renting this apartment to you; if you got busted, and let's be honest, you're track record ain't great, she might be considered an accomplice. I know you wouldn't want that to happen, so when she talks to you, please be sure not to argue. And _don't_ tell her I told you."

"No, of course not. But how ironic is that? Marilyn taught me _too well_. I learned all about cutting expenses, and here I cut a big one, room expense, and now I have to go back to it."

"Room expense? Jody asked incredulously. "You don't make the johns pay for the room?"

"Oh, shit...I didn't know that was even an option."

Jody left for the restaurant shaking her head.

* * *

Jason helped Marilyn with the dishes. "I want to talk about something," he said as they finished.

The sound of Pink Floyd's "Money" started to play. "Sorry, I've got to get that," Marilyn said as she picked up her phone. "That's someone from the bar calling."

She spoke for a bit, saying "uh-huh" a couple of times, and then "sure, I'll be right there."

Jason knew what that meant, so he wasn't surprised when Marilyn said "I've got to go to work for a bit. My bartender Joe is a bit delayed tonight, so I'm going to fill in for a couple of hours so Rosa can go home and be with her kids."

"OK. We'll talk when you get back?"

"Yes, absolutely." She disappeared into the bedroom and emerged a few minutes later, freshly dressed.

"I'll see you," Marilyn said as she kissed Jason, and he just nodded.

* * *

Jason flipped through the channels aimlessly, then read the _New York Daily News_.

 _Marilyn must be the only one left who buys the actual paper_ , he thought.

It was growing dark outside. He turned on a lamp, then decided to go for a walk. He watched a couple walking hand-in-hand in the other direction and felt a twinge of jealousy.

 _Will I look back on this one day and laugh?_ he thought. He doubted it.

He wandered into a movie theater where a comedy was half over. It might even have been funny, had he been paying attention. Twenty minutes in, he got a text.

 _Sorry, but Joe was delayed due to a family emergency, and it's worse than he thought. I'm covering his shift tonight. Do you want to stop by and keep me company, or just go to sleep?_

 _I'm already in bed_ , he texted back. _I'll see you in the morning, if that's okay._

 _Oh, it's totally fine. Goodnight, sweetheart. Sweet dreams._

 _Goodnight, sweetheart._

He left the theater and headed back to Marilyn's apartment. He was still across the street when he saw Tabitha leaving, and Samantha walking up the steps with a man. Something about it was off; even from here, he thought Tabitha looked cheap. She was wearing a very short skirt with fishnet stockings and a gloss red leather jacket and her heels clicked on the pavement. She walked quickly, her hips swinging wide in an exaggerated motion, trying desperately, he thought, to attract attention.

There was a bodega next door; Jason went in and bought a Milky Way bar and a Dr. Pepper. Then he stood in front of the bodega and waited. In less than ten minutes, Tabitha returned with a man on her arms. And a few minutes after that, the man that walked in with Samantha left, followed by Samantha herself a minute later.

 _Oh, shit_ , he thought.

Fifteen minutes later, Samantha returned, with a new man on her arm just as Tabitha was leaving.

* * *

 _I knew it!_ Jason thought as he angrily stuffed his things into his bag. _I knew that bar was just a front. All that talk about prostitution and hookers. She was practically reveling in it! Damn it, I'm such a fool!_

He grabbed his bag and backpack and stormed out of the apartment. He ran down the street for a bit, trying to get away from the apartment as quickly as he could. Then he hailed a cab and found a cheap motel. He climbed into bed and stared into the darkness.

 _She betrayed me,_ he thought. _All those years I was totally faithful to her, and she betrayed me._

 _I could kill her._


	36. Chapter 36

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Thirty-Six_

 _Goodbye_

" _Goodbyes make you think. They make you realize what you've had, what you've lost, and what you've taken for granted."―_ Ritu Ghatourey

 _August 2, 2015_

"Good morning," Jody said cheerfully.

Marilyn was sitting on the couch with her head down. She looked up, and it was clear she had been crying. Jody ran to sit next to her.

"What's wrong?" she said. "Is it Jason?"

Marilyn nodded. "He's gone. I got home from work and my bed―our bed—was empty and all his clothes were gone. I've been calling and texting for two hours, and he didn't reply. He's not coming back, Jody. He's never coming back."

She fell to her left and cried in Jody's arms. For a half-hour Jody held her, comforted her, reassured her, until Marilyn's phone dinged with a text. She read it and dropped the phone.

"Go ahead and read it," she told Jody.

 _I'm changing my number, so you might as well stop with the calls and texts. Don't pretend you don't know why, either. Goodbye, Marilyn._

This time, Marilyn was too stunned to cry. She stood and shuffled down the hallway.

"I've been awake all night," she said. "I'm going to sleep."

"OK," Jody replied. "By the way, my mom got here last night. She's at a motel and she'll be here to help me finish packing and start loading the truck soon, but call me if you need anything, OK?"

Marilyn nodded and dragged herself into bed.

* * *

She dreamed.

They all hated her today, and she ran to escape from it. Her sanctuary, a place where she could be away from everyone else, was calling to her. She sat under it and looked up. The sun was passing behind some clouds, making the day unnaturally dark.

 _Perfect_ , she thought. She put her head in her hands and raged at the world.

 _Why do they tease me?_ she wondered. _Because I cried in class? They'd cry too, if they had to put up with the shit I put up with. Don't they know how much it hurts?_

"What's wrong?"

The voice came from her left. She turned and saw that kid that was always staring at her. Jason. What a pain.

Time slipped as the dream showed her only what she needed to see. "I love Oreos," she heard herself say. She bumped her hand against his, just for a moment, when they both tried to dunk their cookies. She felt a visceral thrill—her first contact with someone who wasn't family.

The scene dissolved in a sea of white. She was staring at _The Death of Socrates_ , wondering how anyone could be so courageous. She was holding Jason's pinky in her left hand and offering her first impressions. A voice broke in.

"It's pronounced Sock-Ruh-Tees."

Her name was Kate and she offered to help. Suddenly Marilyn was running, and then, just like that, Kate explained about van Gogh, and _Irises._

Marilyn blinked and found herself surrounded by irises in the _New York Botanical Gardens._

"I love you, Marilyn," Jason said.

"I love you too, Jason."

So they were in love. And then she was in her apartment and her parents were dead, right next to her, and Jason was running out the door. Marilyn jumped in shock and everything was suddenly black. She felt herself floating away in space, like Gandalf in _The Two Tower_ _s_ _,_ untethered from the world, her destination out of her control. And then gravity tugged at her, and she slowed down and drifted, carefully, deliberately, as though the universe wanted her to be in this place, with this man, and safe from harm.

She turned her head and heard herself say "yes, I forgive you, and yes, I still love you, and yes, I still want to make love to you." And then Jason was on top of her, and she held his hands so hard it hurt, and then there was a new pain, sharp, but sweeter than any pain she had ever endured, and her dreaming self reached out for Jason unconsciously as she imagined he was still there, next to her, for the first night of the rest of their lives.

It was gone in an instant and Marilyn was sitting all alone in _Eddie's Place._ Alone until _she_ came in.

Belle.

It was so good to see her again! From the start, Marilyn knew Belle was a tragic figure. But she was kind, and sweet with a trusting nature that was so rare, especially in a big city. And Marilyn cried in her sleep when Belle told her about Eddie, then laughed as Belle demonstrated her hook shot. And she cried again when Kate placed Belle in handcuffs and read her her rights.

Life was so unfair. Just when she had made a new friend, fate snatched her away.

But Belle had a sister.

Marilyn knew from the start that Jody wouldn't stay long. Jody had told her so when she agreed to let Marilyn advise her. And Jody wasn't as strong as Belle, either. Marilyn could see it in her body language; it was hesitant and carefully measured, and it only grew worse when she lost Belle. But Marilyn saw a spark in her, a kernel of intelligence and wit that needed nurturing to develop. Jody needed skills and she needed confidence, and Marilyn had enough of both to spare.

"I owe you so much," Jody cried just the other night. "And yes, I'll visit Melissa after all. You're right—no matter what else, she's my sister."

Jody disappeared, and Marilyn was staring at her phone, gobsmacked, contemplating the cruelest, most unexpected words she could imagine.

 _Goodbye, Marilyn._

And then everything was black.

She woke and checked her phone; it was…

* * *

 _7:23 AM, August 3, 2015_

Marilyn had slept for twenty-three hours.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Jody saidas Marilyn slogged through the living room.

"Morning, Lorraine McFly," Marilyn said, and Jody laughed. "Sorry I slept so long."

Jody handed Marilyn a cup of coffee. "Clearly you needed it. I hope it did you a world of good."

Marilyn nodded. "Time to get on with my life, I guess."

Jody nodded and hugged her. Then she said "hey, I told my mom that I'd take her to the bar. She wants to see what she gave up, I guess. Want to come?"

"No," Marilyn said, "I don't think...you know what? Yes, I'd like to come. I should be around friends."

"Damn straight. Mom will be here in about a half hour."

Marilyn finished her coffee, took a couple of Advil and then had a long, hot shower. The tension in her muscles seemed to waft away with the steam.

The tension in her mind did not.

* * *

"Is it always this busy?" Rhonda asked as she sat down at a table with Jody and Marilyn.

"At this time of day, yes," Marilyn said. "It's mostly people who work the graveyard shift and a few who...don't."

Beer was the libation of choice at this hour, and Marilyn had recently increased her purchase orders of three different brews on tap, as people showed up in groups from work and exclusively ordered pitchers. She also had the pool tables re-covered, in elegant-looking red felt and she replaced the old, crooked cues. The rest of the décor was essentially the same.

They talked for a minute before a waitress stopped at their table.

"Tabitha," said Jody, "this is my mom. Mom, this is Tabitha. She lives across the hall from Marilyn."

"Ah!" Tabitha said as she shook Rhonda's hand and beamed her a smile. "It's so nice to meet Jody and Belle's mother."

"Belle?" Rhonda said.

"She means Melissa," Jody explained. "Her nickname here was Belle."

"And in her honor, the bar was named after her," Tabitha said. "Oh, and by the way, we're all real sorry about what happened. It's really sad, you know? Belle—sorry, Melissa—was like a mother to us. She was really on our side. We all love her."

"Thanks," Rhonda muttered.

"What'll ya have?" Tabitha asked.

"Just bring me a ginger ale, please," Rhonda said.

Marilyn made a peace sign and said "two," and Jody said "nothing for me."

Rhonda excused herself to use the ladies room. Tabitha had just started to walk away when Marilyn caught her arm. "I have to talk to you and Samantha," she said. "It's urgent."

"She's in the back," Tabitha said. "Shall I get her now?"

"Yeah, please do."

Tabitha disappeared into a doorway behind the bar and emerged a few minutes later with Samantha. Marilyn saw them and took them aside just as Rhonda reappeared behind them.

"You've got to stop turning tricks in my apartment," Marilyn said.

Rhonda heard that and froze. She moved quickly to hide behind some customers and tried to look as nonchalant as one could with a horrified expression pasted to her face.

"I can't let you do that," Marilyn continued. "If you get busted, I could go down with you and I can't let that happen."

Samantha and Tabitha exchanged glances.

"We don't you to get in trouble," Samantha said.

"You really stuck your neck out for us and helped us," Tabitha said. "We'll just start taking the johns back to the _Bay Tower_ again. The night clerk there is such a dope he probably thinks Eddie is still alive, and being the enforcer like always."

Rhonda sped back to the table. She was pale and perspiring.

"Are you OK, mom?" Jody asked.

"A little warm is all," Rhonda said. "I'll be fine when I drink some cold soda."

"Here we are," Marilyn said. She placed the ginger ales on the table. Rhonda drank hers in two gulps and stared at Marilyn before forcing her gaze away, her mind full of questions, with one the most persistent.

 _What did she do to my girls?_

* * *

"Curve!"

Belle lifted her head slowly and glared at the prison guard, then dropped her head back on her pillow. The guard rattled her nightstick against the cell's bars like a playing card on the spokes of a kid's bike.

"Let's go, Curve! You've got a visitor."

This time, Belle sat up, surprised. The sound of the metal key in the lock still bothered her. It was so indicative of this dump, which she had long ago named _the place where dreams go to die_ , though she acknowledged that _most_ of the inmates had done very well murdering their own dreams. And their victims, in some cases, as she knew well.

It wasn't visiting day, so there was no physical contact allowed; the inmate and visitor on opposite sides of bulletproof glass and used a phone. Rhonda was waiting when Belle sat down. By the time Belle picked up the phone, she was already crying.

"I thought you were never coming to see me," Belle said.

"I wasn't going to," Rhonda managed to say, "but I'm here to help Jody move home. Peter's with your aunt. He's doing fine."

"How's Jody?"

"She's managed to save enough money to start over, though she'll be living with me to start. You were right about Marilyn. She taught your sister a lot. Jody's become confident and self-assured. If she can do that here, Cincinnati will be a breeze."

Belle smiled. "I knew it."

"I just came here from Barbelle's," Rhonda said.

Belle shrugged. "What's that?"

"Marilyn's bar. I sold it to her."

"That's fantastic! I didn't know Marilyn was doing as well as _that._ "

"One of the waitresses told me they named it after you, that they knew you as Belle."

Belle nodded. "I was Belle to them," she said. "It was just a nickname."

"Suddenly you have a problem with Melissa?"

"Of course not, mom. But they're the women I told you about. The ones Eddie had under his thumb. When I realized what he was doing to them, I got to know them. I wanted them to know that they weren't alone. I called myself Belle, after Belle Watling, from _Gone With the Wind._ "

"After a prostitute?"

" _They're_ prostitutes!" Belle said, her anger rising. "It was done out of solidarity."

"Solidarity? Why would you want to offer solidarity to such sinners?"

"They were _victims!_ " Belle shouted.

"Keep it down, Curve," the guard shouted, "or you're going back to your cell now!"

"They were victims," Belle repeated. "Victims of the same kind of cruel circumstances that a lot of women face. Some were abused as children. Some were in abusive relationships as adult. Some got hooked on drugs. They were desperate. Can't you have a little bit of Christian compassion for them?"

"Oh, I have all the compassion in the world, Melissa. But they needed more than compassion, they needed help. How was changing your name and becoming their best friend helping them?"

"Their best friend? Is that what they told you? Did you even _talk_ to anyone? I was way more than that. I was their babysitter. I helped two of them with homework. I got one of them into rehab. And I got them in touch with Marilyn. She's a financial genius, mom. I knew she could help them. My compassion for them wasn't just lip service, it was meaningful. I _helped_ them."

"And your sister? Did you help _her_? I told you when she moved to this godforsaken city to watch out for her."

Belle panicked. "What do you mean?" she asked nervously. "You said she was doing fine."

"Oh, she's doing more than fine. She's doing tricks."

" _Turning_ tricks? Jody? No way, mother. No way."

"I overheard Marilyn tell two of those waitresses who live across the hall to stop turning tricks in the apartment. And Jody spends a lot of time there, Melissa. She told me herself. Is this the great "business advice" Marilyn gave her? To become a _whore?_ "

Belle turned white. "No," she said, "not Jody. No way!"

"Time!" the guard shouted. "Back you go, Curve."

The sound on the phone cut out, and Rhonda just watched as Belle shouted "not Jody!" over and over as she was dragged off.

* * *

"Hey, guys," Marilyn whispered. "Remember me?"

She thought about it and wondered if any of these irises were the same ones that were growing here at the New York Botanical Gardens on her first trip. She decided probably not, though perhaps they were descendants, and that made her happy.

"It doesn't matter," she said, her voice breaking. "You're here now. I'm here now. We're together."

She chuckled. "Not Jason and me," she said. "We were together _then_ but we're not together _now._ But that's how life goes, sometimes, I guess."

There was a mother and daughter sitting on the bench were she and Jason sat that day. The daughter transferred her balloon to her mother to eat some popcorn, then took it back and laughed as a squirrel approached. The mother whispered something into her daughter's ear. The girl tossed a couple of popcorn kernels near the squirrel and laughed again as the squirrel devoured them.

Marilyn looked away. She was rubbing her finger absentmindedly, and then realized her thumb hurt. She looked at the diamond-shaped indentation in her skin, then took out her phone and read her text from Jason for the last time.

 _Goodbye, Marilyn._

She sighed and deleted it.

 _Goodbye, Jason_ , she said.

She took off her ring and pressed it into the soft ground next to the one white iris in this field of them.

* * *

"It's insufferable in here," Rhonda declared.

"It's New York in the summer, mother," Jody replied.

"I'm opening the window. We've got to get some air flow going in here." She undid the latch and opened the window, taking a quick survey of things on the street and shaking her head at the sight of a man and woman talking. _Prostitution everywhere you look_ , she thought. _Even in broad daylight._

"I hope this doesn't take too long," Jody said. "I didn't realize how much stuff I had accumulated in only six years here in New York."

"I'm surprised there isn't more," Rhonda said.

They packed in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Jody said "are you going to tell me where you went this morning?"

"Of course. I'm not trying to hide anything. I visited Melissa."

" _What?_ I thought you had vowed never to visit her."

"I did," Rhonda admitted, "but...I gave her life. How can I not visit her?"

She was crying, and Jody hugged her.

"How's she doing?" Jody asked.

"She's getting by," Rhonda said. "She's getting by."

They spent the rest of the afternoon packing and transferring boxes to the U-Haul truck. By evening, Rhonda was getting frustrated.

"We can't wait for her any longer," Rhonda said. "If we don't get to our motel soon, we could lose our reservation."

"I _have_ to say goodbye to Marilyn," Jody said. "This isn't even an option. "Can't you go, and I'll just take a cab to the motel?"

"We need to leave now," Rhonda said.

"NO!" Jody yelled. " _You_ go. I'm staying and I'll meet you later. Is that clear?"

"It's clear," Rhonda said sheepishly. _I can't believe Marilyn has this much of a hold on Jody_ , she thought.

"I won't wait all night," Jody said, softly. "If Marilyn isn't here by eight, I'll leave."

"Eight's OK."

"I'm going to write her a letter, just in case. I'll see you tonight, mom."

They hugged and Jody went into her bedroom to write. Rhonda closed the window and left.

* * *

It was 7:52 when Marilyn arrived. There were tears and hugs and expressions of gratitude, then more tears.

"I've got something in the refrigerator that I've been saving," Marilyn said.

"That bottle?" Jody asked.

"Yeah. It was supposed to be for me and Jason. But somehow, this is better."

She got the bottle and held it up. "Dom Perignon, 1998. Care to do the honors?"

"Love to," Jody said. She worked the cork with her fist until it was nearly released, then pushed it from the side with her thumbs. There was a loud pop, and the cork hit the ceiling.

"Great job!" said Marilyn.

"I'll get the glasses," Jody said.

"Who needs glasses? Let's just slam it."

They did. They made toasts, and told stories and vowed to visit each other. By the time Jody answered her mother's frantic call, she was thoroughly drunk.

"I'm calling for an _Uuuuber_ now," Jody said, "so sit _tight,_ mother. I'll be there soooon."

"You're drunk," Marilyn said. "Fun, isn't it?"

"I'm not dunk," Jody said. "And I'm not drunk, either." She laughed. "But it _is_ fun to make the 'oooo' sound."

And that was that. Marilyn helped Jody to the car when the Uber driver left. They had one last hug.

And then Jody was gone.

* * *

Marilyn stayed up for a bit longer, watching TV. It was after 11 when she turned out the light and went to her bedroom.

She sat on her bed and surveyed the room...


	37. Chapter 37

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Thirty-Six_

 _Déjà Vu_

 _Déjà vu is the mind's way of letting you know you're in the right place at the right time—_ Unknown

 _August 4, 2015_

"What have we got, boys?" Beckett asked.

"Marilyn Singletary, 29," Ryan said. "Single slug to the head. Looks like a .38."

"OK," Beckett said, putting on a pair of gloves, "let's get started."

Before they entered, she took another look at the apartment.

"We've been here before _,_ haven't we?" she said.

"Sure," Castle said. "This is where we arrested Melissa Curve, that woman who confessed to murdering the bartender."

"Yeah, that's it," Beckett said.

They entered and went straight to the bedroom. Marilyn was on her back, eyes open. The bullet had entered just above her right ear.

"No scorch marks," Castle said. "The perp wasn't up close."

"Were the lights on when you got here?" Beckett asked.

"Nope. In fact, we had to take the black sheets off the windows to let some light in here," Ryan said.

"Pretty good shot in the dark. Maybe the perp used night vision goggles."

"Good ones aren't cheap," Espo said. "Maybe this was a professional hit."

"One shot, from that distance, at a girl in bed?" Beckett said. "Not likely. A pro would get up close."

"Yeah, you're right. We can run down the places in the city that sell them. Maybe someone bought a pair recently."

"Check out the rest of the house," Beckett said, and Espo and Ryan left.

"Why do I get the feeling," Castle said, "that we're not going to have that kind of luck in this case?"

"We won't," Beckett replied.

Laney arrived. She took a scalpel and made an incision to insert the thermometer into the liver, then made a quick calculation.

"Time of death is between 10 and midnight," she said. "I might be able to narrow it down when I get her back to the lab."

And just like that, Laney was gone with the body.

Beckett looked around. "BS in economics from NYU," she said as she read Marilyn's diploma on the wall. "Impressive."

"She read a lot," Castle said, "and not easy stuff, either. Plato, Aristotle, Thomas Aquinas, Kant, Nietzsche. And that's just philosophy. There's also Dickens, James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, Faulkner and Hemingway. I'm impressed."

"Weird how you read those in chronological order."

"That's how they're organized on the shelf."

Beckett spied a poster on the wall that she recognized.

" _Irises_ ," she said, chuckling as she pointed to it. "One of van Gogh's finest and most popular paintings. God, don't I sound like the perfect tour guide."

"Ah, Castle said as he joined her, "that's the one at the Getty Museum, right? The one in L.A.?"

"I taught you well, Castle."

"I've seen this one before," Castle said as he stood in front of another poster. "Socrates, about to drink the hemlock."

"Jacques-Louis David. Another one at the Met. Not surprising, really. It goes with the philosophy."

She turned her head, shut her eyes and placed her hand over them.

"What's wrong?" Castle asked.

"I think it's the beginning of a migraine," Beckett said. "I'll be all right."

Ryan came in. "No signs of a struggle," he said. "And no forced entry, either. She must have known her attacker. Either let her in, or the perp had a key."

"A former roommate?" Beckett asked.

"Definitely a possibility," Ryan admitted.

They continued to inspect the apartment.

" _Irises!_ " Beckett said in the living room. "Another poster, and this one _is_ the one from the Met."

"She loved van Gogh," Espo said. "There's a poster of _Starry Night_ in the bathroom."

Beckett squinted and bent over, fingers at her temples.

"That bad?" Castle asked. "Maybe I should get you home."

"She loved van Gogh," Beckett repeated. "Yeah, take me home, Rick."

* * *

Beckett was lying in bed with a cold compress over her head. Castle came in holding Beckett's phone. "It's Lanie," he said. "Do you want to take it?"

She nodded and took the phone.

"Hi, Lanie."

"Hi, Kate. I didn't catch you at the precinct. Espo said you left early."

"Yeah, I've got a migraine. I just want to lie down, turn off all the lights and go the hell to sleep."

"Ooh, sorry to bother you. But I wanted you to know something about Marilyn Singletary's death."

"She didn't die of the gunshot wound?"

"She may have been trying to commit suicide. Espo found a cup with her fingerprints on it, and I tested it. The same substance was in her stomach. It turns out Marilyn Singletary had enough hemlock in her system to kill a moose."

"Hemlock?" Beckett said, and she dropped the phone. Shards of memories began pounding her brain, as though she was experiencing her migraine from twelve distinct locations. She covered her eyes with her hands; the fuzzy outline of the world turned to black and her brain was filled with words and the words slid across her head and lodged in her ears, pounding like a jackhammer. A faint light emerged; a pinpoint in the middle of her consciousness, and it began to grow. Soon it was blinding, and then it flashed in a sea of white and she was standing in a huge room surrounded by people. She recognized it at once―the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Then she saw herself from above, years ago, home from college for the summer, an idealistic volunteer leading tours and answering questions. She tapped a young girl on the shoulder.

" _It's pronounced Sock-ruh-tees. That's him, sitting up in bed. See that cup he's reaching for? It has poison in it, and that's what's going to kill him._

She was talking to this girl, but the image grew hazy. It began to fade; Beckett bore down and concentrated with her entire will, and her head exploded in pain for the effort.

" _I'm a summer guide here at the Met. My name's Kate. And I'm around here all day, so if you have any questions, just ask, OK?_ "

" _Pleased to meet you, Kate. My name's Marilyn and this is Jason."_

She began to wail at the pain; tears streamed down her face as her memories grew stronger. Castle put his arms around her, but she shrugged them off. Marilyn tapped Kate on the shoulder, asked for help, and ran away. Kate struggled to keep up.

" _Ah, Irises. This is one of our_ _finest and_ _most popular paintings. It's by Vincent van Gogh._ "

The pain grew more intense. She shut her eyes harder and pressed her hands over her ears.

 _That girl...she came back, didn't she?_

The vision resumed and suddenly she was face-to-face with Marilyn again.

" _Irises again? I'm not surprised. Lots of people have spent many hours here getting lost in that work. I don't think there's a more popular painting in the whole museum."_

Then Marilyn was talking rapidly, clearly proud of some newfound facts she had discovered since her last visit.

" _Remember when I was looking at the 'Death of Socrates' painting and you told me there was poison in that cup? It was_ _a plant called h_ _emlock. That's the poison Socrates drank._ "

 _van Gogh…Socrates...hemlock._

 _Suicide._

Beckett thought back to the crime scene. It was all there—the philosophy, the van Gogh, the prints of both _Irises_ and _The Death of Socrates._ And her name was Marilyn. It hit her like a thunderbolt, and the color instantly drained from her face.

She fled.

Castle was so stunned he sat there for a moment before following Beckett. He found her sitting on the sofa, crying. He put his arms around her and asked "what's wrong?" and this time she hugged him back and cried into his ear.

"It can't be. It _can't_ be. Not that sweet little girl!"

 _To Be Concluded…_


	38. Chapter 38

_Irises_

 _by softydog88_

 _Chapter Thirty-Seven_

 _An End And A Beginning_

 _Take hemlock—bearded goats graze on it, and grow sleek and wide,_

 _When it's a toxic plant to us; in fact, it's suicide._

Lucretius, _De Rerum Natura_

 _August 4, 2015_

She sat on her bed and surveyed the room. It was just the way she liked it—as dark as she could manage.

She sent one last email to Jody and tore open a bag of popcorn, scattering kernels without a care. She sipped her tea and put on her headphones. A few mouse clicks later, _Airplane!_ appeared on her laptop _._ She watched and laughed and ate and drank as she had done so many times before.

After the movie, she picked up a book and turned on the small lamp next to the bed. It was Plato's _Crito_ , the book where he detailed the death of Socrates. Marilyn turned to the death scene and whispered the words she had read so often. Then she made another cup of tea and carefully added the hemlock leaves, stirring the concoction with her finger.

She wanted one last, good, therapeutic cry—for her parents, her dog, her aunt and uncle, Belle, and Jason—but she was all cried out. She held her cup in front of her lips.

"The only thing I know is that I know nothing," she said, quoting Socrates.

She drank the hemlock, turned off the lamp and settled down for the big sleep.

* * *

Rhonda Curve waited for a car to pass before approaching Marilyn's apartment. She fiddled with the window, found it still unlatched. She was inside in a few seconds, moving swiftly from the living room to Marilyn's bedroom.

She held her ear to the door, listening intently. It took a minute before she heard the sound of movement—a slight squeak of bedsprings. She tried the handle; it turned with ease. She pushed the door and was met with resistance as the towel that Marilyn had wedged against the other side of the door held.

She pushed a little harder and the door began to give way. She pulled the door closed as silently as she could manage, then pushed again. The towel retreated a bit more; she repeated it until she had the door open wide enough to enter.

Marilyn was asleep. Rhonda stared at her with hatred burning through her body and her soul.

* * *

Something stirred Marilyn, a noise just beyond the edge of her perception. She laid still and held her breath.

Silence.

The omnipresent sounds of New York, audible even in the dead of night, had settled down to nothingness. She shook her head and chided herself for her skittishness, closing her eyes after a minute's contemplation.

She was nearly asleep when she heard it again; once, twice—a swooshing sound, like shoes sliding slowly across a carpet, and now her heart was pounding and her eyes were wide open, pupils rapidly dilating as they tried, fruitlessly, to adjust to the dark. She fumbled for the lamp and couldn't find it.

 _The hemlock_ , she thought. _It's playing tricks with my mind. D_ _eath has come_. _So be it._

* * *

Rhonda's heart was pounding so loudly she imagined Marilyn could hear it. She shook her head, declining to let madness take hold of her again. She held the gun in front of her and squeezed the trigger.

* * *

Something went _click._

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a burst of light, a pinpoint of energy brighter than the sun. It popped into existence and froze. But time had merely slowed, Marilyn realized, not stopped. The flash expanded like a time-lapse movie of a blooming flower; a sound followed, like a nuclear bomb exploding at 1/8 speed—her own personal big bang from the comfort of her deathbed.

 _Is this how it happens?_ she wondered. Her knowledge of hemlock came solely from Plato, and he didn't mention a light _._ Her legs were cold, but not numb like those of Socrates. The light continued to expand, and she watched it in fascination as it covered her entire line of sight.

 _I'm in the wormhole to heaven_ , she thought, just as the bullet reached her head, and for an infinitesimally brief moment, she knew it was all over.

And then it was.

Rhonda hurried to the living room. Her hand was shaking so badly that she could barely close the living room window. Then she left the apartment and threw the gun away.

* * *

 _August 6, 2015_

"Captain!" Beckett exclaimed. "Can you imagine that, Castle? We have to celebrate. Just the two of us, no friends or family. I can fill them all in later."

"Absolutely" Castle replied. "I'll book us a room at the Four Seasons and have a bottle of Dom Perignon waiting for us."

"You're quite the romantic when you want to be, Rick," she mumbled with her lips on his.

Castle opened the apartment door. "OR—" he said as he turned on the light.

"SURPRISE!"

"Aaah!" Beckett shouted.

"I've been waiting _so long_ to get you back," Castle said.

"How could you have put this together so _fast_ , Rick?You didn't know about my promotion until twenty minutes ago."

"Not quite," Gates said as she handed Beckett a glass of champagne. "I told Castle about it yesterday. Wanted to give him some lead time to arrange something for you."

"Then thank you, Captain. I appreciate it."

"Don't worry," Castle whispered, "that room at the Four Seasons will be waiting for us; I booked it last night. So go easy on the bubbly—I wasn't kidding about that bottle of the good stuff."

The well-wishers began to swarm around Beckett, everyone giving her a hug.

"Congratulations, Kate," Ryan said. "I'm so happy for you."

" _Captain_ Beckett," Espo said. "Couldn't have happened to a more worthy detective."

The party went on for an hour before Gates clinked her champagne glass with her spoon. "I'm sure these two lovebirds want to celebrate on their own," she said, "so we should probably call it a night."

 _Thank you_ , Beckett mouthed at Gates.

Espo took Beckett aside and handed her a leather-bound journal. "One quick thing, Captain," he said. "We found this in Marilyn's closet. I thought you'd want to read it."

"Thanks, Espo. I'll see you on Monday."

She put the journal in her dresser and she and Castle left for the night.

* * *

Neither Castle nor Beckett ever had trouble falling asleep after an extended lovemaking session. The sheer physicality of the act left them spent; the intense emotion of the experience left them mentally drained. What was left but a good night's sleep in each other's arms?

Tonight, however, Beckett was restless. The case had taken an emotional toll on her; it was the first homicide she had investigated where she had known the victim as a child, even if only tangentially.

She got up and ordered a pot of coffee from room service. It arrived at 2:50 am.

"Please let me know if you need anything else," the waiter said. "Aspirin, tomato juice, dry toast..."

"I don't have a hangover," Beckett said, handing over a five-dollar bill and shutting the door before the waiter could finish apologizing.

By 3:30 she had drunk two cups of coffee and was already wired. She got dressed and left.

The night was warm and quiet. She sat on a bench in front of the hotel and requested an Uber. By 4:00 she was back at the apartment, and by 4:30, she had returned to the hotel.

Castle was still asleep. Beckett sat at the table with Marilyn's journal and a fresh pot of coffee.

The journal was recent, and Beckett was shocked at how it began.

 _I'm engaged! What an incredible birthday present from my love! We're finally going to start our life together._

The date was July 30, 2015.

 _From being engaged to suicide in_ _four_ _days?_ Beckett thought. _What the hell happened?_

The next entry held Beckett's answer.

 _August 2. Jason left me. He didn't offer an explanation or even come to see me, he just left. All his things were gone when I got home from work. I tried to call him for hours, and he never picked up. I don't know what's come over him—was it something I did, or was he just having cold feet? But I know he's never going to return, and here I am, 20 years later, in the same place I was when we met._

Taped to the page below was a newspaper clipping from the _New York Daily News_ dated August 4.

 _Actor Jason Tompkins, Star of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', Commits Suicide at 29._

The air left Beckett's lungs all at once. Jason had overdosed on barbiturates, the story said. Below the clipping Marilyn had written and underlined a quote that Beckett recognized as Ernest Hemingway.

 _But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed, but not defeated._

Beckett placed her cheek flat on the table and sat there, motionless, for a few minutes.

The details of Marilyn's life ended there—the rest of the journal was just quotes from authors and philosophers. Then Beckett found a sheet of paper tightly tucked between two pages of sketches Marilyn had made of van Gogh paintings.

It was a copy of a will. It was short, and it began with the usual disclaimer about sound mind and body before Marilyn declared that she had no living relatives. _B_ _arbelle's_ was to have its title transferred to Rhonda Curve of Cincinnati, Ohio, with the stipulation that she sell it and split the proceeds with her daughter Jody. Marilyn's apartment, which she owned outright, would be sold and the profit split among the waitresses and bartenders from _Barbelle's_. Samantha and Tabitha's apartment (from The Hooker's basketball team, Marilyn added, as she didn't know their last names and wasn't sure their first ones were real) was mortgaged. It, mortgage and all, belonged to them.

There was one last item.

 _I hereby leave the remainder of my assets, 1.3 million dollars in cash, to Peter Curve of Cincinnati, Ohio. It is to be placed in a trust until he's 18._

"Wow," Beckett whispered, "I had no idea."

She found a few photographs nestled between the pages. There was one of a young boy and girl, with a dog. It was taken in Central Park and they were all smiles. On the back it said _with Jason and Socrates van Gogh_.

Beckett laughed as she read the dog's name. Then she closed her eyes and the faces in the photograph floated away on her imagination, to the Met. There they were, discovering the joys of art and philosophy, maybe ten years old, and clearly in love.

She wept.

The last page began with a quote from Virginia Woolf.

 _Death is the enemy. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O death!_

 _The waves broke on the shore._

Beneath it, Marilyn had written _but I can't_ _fight_ _it_ _anymore_ _. I just can't._

In the middle of the page was a photograph of van Gogh's _Irises_ , with Marilyn in the foreground _._ Beckett recognized the painting as the one that was in the Getty Museum, not the Met.

"She got to see it," Beckett said softly. "I'm glad."

She got to the end of the page—one last quote, one last thought to record before the end.

 _A little poison now and then: that maketh pleasant dreams. And much poison at last for a pleasant death._

Frederich Nietzsche, _Thus Spake Zarathustra_

In the end, the forces were too much for Marilyn to bear. She had fought it, valiantly, and lost.

Beckett looked back at Castle. He was still asleep. _How lucky I am_ , she thought. _Sometimes I can't even believe it._ She climbed into bed and wrapped her arms around him. He woke just long enough to pull her arm closer, and rub her palm on his cheek.

Kate fell asleep thinking of the Hemingway quote.

 _A man can be destroyed, but not defeated._

Marilyn, like Jason and Belle before her, had been destroyed.

* * *

EPILOGUE

December 26, 2015

The sun was low in the sky, and it cast its golden glow over the cemetery. Kate walked slowly past the headstones; new and old, kempt and neglected, they paid silent witness to innumerable lives that could have started anywhere, but ended here. She held two bouquets of flowers—roses and irises.

After a few minutes of walking absentmindedly, she stopped at her mother's grave. Her father had been here recently; he always bought tulips, and a couple of them were still clinging to life. He had also left a handwritten note, weighted down with a few pebbles.

 _I love you, Johanna_.

The writing was small, elegant cursive, and the last _a_ had a tail that zig-zagged across the paper and became the string to a heart-shaped kite flying over a field of blue tulips.

 _One day I'll have to ask him why tulips,_ she thought. _Wouldn't it be cool if there was a whole story behind it, like Marilyn's irises?_

She placed the roses next to the note and talked to her mother for a few minutes, ending with "I made captain. I hope I've made you proud."

She needed directions to the other grave. It took her a bit to find it, in the far corner of the cemetery, among a few other recently dug graves.

There was no one around. She sat down and carefully placed the irises at the base of the tombstone.

 _Marilyn Singletary_

 _1986-2015_

" _I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything."_

— _Virginia Woolf_

"I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to visit you before," Kate said. "I was promoted to captain; I've been pretty busy with my new duties and other big changes in my life."

She sighed.

"It was Jason, wasn't it? You heard that he killed himself, and you couldn't go on. I don't blame you, Marilyn. It's understandable—lots of people have dealt with that kind of pain in exactly the same way. Your heroes—Socrates, van Gogh, Virginia Woolf, Hemingway—they all killed themselves. You might have thought there was a certain nobility in it— how they had the ultimate control over their own lives. But it's such a waste! I remember you as an intelligent, sweet young woman; the world was yours if you wanted it. I don't know why Jason did it, but I think I know why you tried.

"Yes, _tried._ You might be interested to know this—you didn't actually kill yourself. You were murdered. My detectives don't know who did it yet, but they're great, and they're going to get him. I promise you."

For a moment, she didn't know what else to say. She knew that she couldn't leave yet, but she also knew her time with Marilyn was near its end.

"I stopped by Bedford Hills," she finally said. "I wanted to let Melissa know what happened to you. I know you were roommates, and when I told her, she broke down. She told me what you had done for her, and how much you meant to her. Maybe she broke your heart with what she did, like Jason must have. But I wanted you to know that even though you lost your parents and your fiancé, there was still someone who loved you. You might not have thought so, but you made a mark on Melissa's life. You can be proud of that. For now, though...rest in peace, Marilyn."

Kate looked up at the sky. The sun was nearly gone, and a few of the brighter stars had begun to emerge. She heard the roar of a jet from her left and tracked it as it crossed the sky.

A thought occurred to her: _m_ _aybe_ _I'm not_ _done with Marilyn_ _after all_ _. Maybe in a way,_ _I_ _never w_ _ill_ _be._

A few snowflakes danced in front of her face, drifted slowly to the ground, and vanished. Her mind made up, she stood and placed her hands on her stomach, running them slowly over the bump.

"Johanna Marilyn Castle," she said, "I can't wait to meet you."

She felt a pressure against her palms, once, twice—a twinge of recognition from the womb.

Here, in this place of the dead, was, at last, a little life.

THE END


End file.
